


Necessary Evils

by brightlin



Series: Where Wise Men Fear to Tread [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Amell Inquisitor, Child Loss, Dubious Morality, F/F, F/M, Infertility, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Soul Bond, Teen Pregnancy, mage! Alistair, seeker! Alistair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2018-10-12 19:06:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 52,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10497588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightlin/pseuds/brightlin
Summary: Just as Elissa Cousland discovers she can never have a child with Alistair, Solona Amell admits she's pregnant. Just what does the Taint do to the unborn? Alistair comes to terms with his family. Cullen struggles with his demons.["Necessary Evils" combines characters and lore from across all Dragon Age media.]





	1. Queen (Elissa)

**Author's Note:**

> "Necessary Evils" is a sequel novel to "Bright Things". It picks up in the autumn of 9:30 in the world of Dragon Age. It continues directly from the previous work, and does not stand alone. While the first novel focused closely on Alistair, there will be multiple points of view in this piece, denoted at the start of the chapter. A primary theme of "Necessary Evils" will be pregnancy, infertility, and child loss.
> 
> The main pairings are Alistair Theirin/Elissa Cousland and Cullen Rutherford/Solona Amell. Other minor pairings in some capacity include previous Elissa/Nathaniel, previous Elissa/Geraldine (OFC), previous Wynne/Greagoir, previous Leliana/Marjolaine, background Leliana/Bethany, background Morrigan/Sten.
> 
> (This story is also available at *ff.net)

****

 

portrait of Alistair and Elissa (scene from chapter five) painted by [saa-pandaleon](http://saa-pandaleon.tumblr.com)

 

* * *

 

 

**Part One : The Mirror Cracking**

 

* * *

 

 

_Tell all the truth but tell it slant —_

_Success in Circuit lies_

_Too bright for our infirm Delight_

_The Truth's superb surprise_

_As Lightning to the Children eased_

_With explanation kind_

_The Truth must dazzle gradually_

_Or every man be blind —_

\- Emily Dickinson

 

 

* * *

 

 

The woman pulled the wide hood of her cloak up over the crest of her head, and felt the thick black wool drape around her ears. The wool was warm, but not as warm as the soft sealskin she kept in her trunk. Wynda's cloak stank of death; it was unseemly among civilized company. Elissa found she preferred it. The autumn wind picked up, and carried with it the smell of burning refuse in the dry brown fields, black smoke from chimney fires, and wet rot. Her horse, a gray filly, crunched through the thick leaves on the road. She rode side-saddle, with the folds of her dress hanging over the edge of her fine Orlesian boots.

Naturally, it was all a farce.

Moira Theirin had once known how to wear all the faces of a rebel queen— knight in gleaming armor, sage, orator, general, delicate woman— and how to switch between them imperceptibly. Perhaps the roles had not been quite so contradictory in her time. In Orlais, Lissa thought ruefully, they did this much more sensibly. A mask for every role. The Warden would wear a mask of burnished silver, etched with the lines of fine feathers. It would cover her lips, smooth over every hint of deception, make every word ring true. The Warden never doubted herself, never second-guessed, never worried if others would see how she shook in her boots.

The mask of Lady Cousland would be made of crystal, delicate and cracked up the middle. Distorting her features but concealing nothing. Every day the crack split a little wider.

The wind passed through the folds of Lissa's fancy clothes, rending her into a paper doll.

Elissa had been about nine years old when she first stood in the royal palace before the painting of the Queen. It was a massive undertaking; the canvas was six feet high and nine feet long, and covered most of a wall in the gallery. The woman in the painting had a severe countenance, beautiful but terrifying, which reminded young Lissa of no one more than her own mother. With good cause— all likenesses of the real Moira had been destroyed by the Usurper Meghren. Another sat for King Maric's commission. Fenella Mac Eanraig, née Theirin, had more than a cursory resemblance to her sovereign cousin. The two as girls had passed for twins— the same waves of blonde curls, the same piercing blue eyes, the same strong Theirin jaw.

The artist had taken several liberties with his work. For one thing, Lissa found it highly unlikely that Moira had ever used a Tevinter chariot in battle. For another, Moira had been given fiery red hair. Lissa had not known Moira, or even her own grandmother Fenella, but she did know that detail was wrong.

History always forgot the details. But it remembered the victors.

At nine, the inaccuracies had annoyed her practical girlhood sensibilities. At eleven, she had sat before it with her sketchbook and tried to copy the lines of her armor. At thirteen, she began to see herself in Moira's face, a mirror in the paint.

_Her father was a member of the king's private council. More often than not, Elissa came to Moira's gallery to hide._

_"Hello," said a voice— familiar but not familiar— from behind her. "No, I didn't mean to startle you. Don't get up, child."_

_Lissa warred with herself internally, unable to decide between her obligation to stand in the king's presence and his command to stay seated. She tried to speak, but found herself terribly tongue-tied. "Your Majesty," she abruptly burbled, lowering her head as a flush of scarlet shame shot across her cheeks._

_Maric smiled behind his neatly trimmed beard. "Whom are you hiding from today, Lady Elissa?"_

_"How did you know?!" she asked, mouth falling open. She wondered how it could be that the King of Ferelden would know her secret. Was it possible that he really knew everything?_

_He threw up his hands in a charmingly disarming fashion. "I must confess. Ser Elric told everything." Ser Elric Maraigne was the knight stationed outside the gallery on that day, with his nose deep in a book. Evidently, she had not had passed him by unnoticed._

_Conscious that the king had asked her a direct question, Lissa spoke. "Anora wants to dress me up. But I'm not a baby any more. I'm too old for that game." Self consciously, she tucked her ratty strands of red hair behind her shoulder. She'd lost her ribbons. Again._

_Maric laughed. "I've heard you'd rather play swords."_

_"I'm not playing, exactly. I'm very good," Lissa explained earnestly, "In Highever, all the boys want to spar with me. But here, Fergus and Cailan tell me I have to stay with Anora, and do what she wants." Oh Andraste, hearing it out loud did make her sound like a bitty bairn. Here she was, a grown girl only months away from her debut ball. Her white satin ballgown was nearly complete, her engagement to Nate Howe assured, her dancing shoes on order from Antiva City, and still she was sitting here in the dusty corridor, sniffling to her King about an older girl picking on her. Mother would wallop her for sure. "Please don't tell my parents I said that."_

_Maric heard her hiccup in distress. "A king's promise, my lady." He held his easy smile, ever gallant, and turned to the larger-than-life portrait of his mother before them. "You come here often," he noted._

_"She looks like my mother."_

_The king started, and let out a bark of surprised laughter. "I suppose it does look something like Eleanor. Or Nell," he added, referring to her mother's twin. "You know, I never noticed." He stepped closer, and touched the canvas with two fingers, right along the shadow of Moira's jaw._

_"It's wrong." Lissa frowned. "The artist did it wrong. She's meant to be blonde."_

_Maric hummed, with his back to her. His pale blond hair was worn long. Usually when she saw him in court it fell around his shoulders, but this time it was tied back in a tail. 'Must need a wash,' she thought, and silently tittered over the image of His Royal Majesty, naked in a bathtub, with the foam layered up to his neck._

_People said he was handsome. In her limited experience, people said plenty of things. But they did hang pictures of him in their houses, from when he was younger. Before he'd grown out that silly, pointed beard. Lissa didn't much see the point of it. Maric was still lean and muscular, and did not need to cover up a softening jawline or double chin. The yellow beard, a shade darker than his hair, just made him look old. Perhaps it was supposed to make him look dignified. But if that was the case, he shouldn't stomp around the palace wearing threadbare velvet tunics with stains all down the front._

_Twelve years he'd been like that, almost her whole life. Since the terribly sad death of Queen Rowan, her Nan said. Once he had even gone down into the Deep Roads with the Grey Wardens, which everyone knew was a death sentence, but had come back alive._

_"I can't tell anymore," Maric admitted softly, mostly to himself. "I don't remember what she looked like. I've spent half my life without her now." He swallowed, and lifted his hand from the glossy canvas. "At the very least we can say it's a very expensive portrait of your grandmother, little pup."_

_Lissa bit her lip, sorry that she had made the king sad. "Do you want to know why I come here, every visit to Denerim?"_

_Maric turned to look over his shoulder. "Yes, I think I do."_

_"I think… I think someday that will be me. Not the queen, that's Anora's job. But… I'm meant to be an arlessa. In Amarantine City." She flushed. "You know that. I mean, your majesty."_

_"I follow," he nodded._

_"People will depend on me. I come here and I wonder, how did she do it? H-How do you do it?"_

_"A thoughtful question," Maric replied, looking contemplative. "Believe it or not, the fact that you worry is a good sign."_

_"Da says that."_

_"I'm sure he does. The first thing you must know is that a ruler in Ferelden is a servant of the people. Remember this and you'll be better loved than any Orlesian noble." His bright blue eyes lit up from some joke she did not quite follow. "The Valmonts think think they tax in the Maker's name. But we Theirins know better." She opened her mouth to protest, but he gently continued, "Yes, you can be a Theirin and a Cousland both. They are not so different, pup. That is the second thing you must know. A ruler surrounds themself with people who are much wiser than they."_

_"But you are ever so wise!"_

_He laughed. "Maybe. Loghain would tell you that I wasn't, in the beginning. How old are you now?"_

_"Thirteen, going on fourteen." She caught herself picking at an ink-stained cuticle. "But, um, I'm meant to marry Nate when I turn sixteen."_

_"You like this boy?"_

_"Your Majesty?"_

_"I thought to ask," he sighed, waving her concern away. "I hope Master Nathaniel is quite... different from his lord father?"_

_She shrugged, but a smile broke across her lips. "Yes."_

_"Fine, fine." His expression became distracted, as he gazed across the hills in the painting to a dark castle crowded close to the sky. "Do not let Anora bully you so."_

_"You'd do better telling Cailan that."_

_"Such cheek."_

"Elissa," someone said.

"Your Majesty?" she repeated absentmindedly, lulled by the rhythm of her horse.

"I'll have none of that now," Alistair snorted. He adjusted the reins in his left fist to match pace with her. "You look like you're about to drop off the side. Should we stop and set camp?"

She coughed into the back of her glove. "No, I'm fine. I was daydreaming."

They had set a grueling pace from Ostagar back to Redcliffe. Once there they had bathed and changed and mounted fresh horses. He'd stepped away to shave before the glass and returned to find her sleeping in the cooling bathwater. More than anything, she needed rest, but she had learned to live without it. Nearly. Almost.

"What about? Let me guess. A warm bedroll? Lissie, another half mile and you'll be cracking your head on the ground like an egg. And Uncle Teagan will blame me for certain."

"No. It was… your father, actually."

Alistair grimaced. "That's it. We're stopping."

"But we still have the light!"

"Then we'll hunt. Show me how you can hunt in a dress," he said teasingly, and turned his horse off the road. With a long-suffering sigh, she followed him into the woods. Beyond the first copse of trees was a suitable clearing with a decent windbreak of thicket on all sides, and a narrow trench of fresh water for the horses. Really, one could not ask for a better campsite. There was evidence that others had been there two days past— trampled grass, cold ashes— but no clear sign of whom they might have been. Alistair tied up the horses for the night, while she picked around in the remnants.

Lissa's dress was too valuable a prop to be damaged tramping around in the brush after small game, grouse or pheasant or rabbit or nug, whatever it was that lived here. It was inky black, the color of mourning, the color of the stains on her fingers no matter how hard she scrubbed. Damn thing. Might as well have been white, the way it showed the mud. The skirt was gathered and stiff, and the waist was quite fitted from her hips to her bust, as was the Fereldan fashion. At least there was no corset; she'd never been able to ride for long with boning crushing her ribs. The high collar made her feel like she was slowly strangling.

There were a good deal fewer buttons down the back than there should have been. Morrigan apparently disliked finishing buttonholes, and so had placed only five large fastenings down the back, rather than the standard line of miniscule buttons which required the assistance of a second pair of hands. Thank the Maker for Morrigan's sensibilities overriding Leliana's vision. Lissa slipped her hands under her cloak and with a little squirming managed the fastenings one by one. It drooped, but mostly held its shape, even as she tugged it from the wrists. The cloth was thoroughly darted and starched. Another moment and she stepped out of it, clothed only in her smalls, her wool cloak, and her boots.

Alistair's eyes went as wide as the moons. "What are you doing?" he asked, with a fixed stare upon her breasts. She coughed pointedly. He flushed, realizing he'd been caught looking, and tried his best to keep his eyes on hers. Bless him. His neck was even red. "Why are you—" He bit off the word, "—naked?" Still waiting for lightning to strike him, apparently.

"I cannot hunt in this dress. I only have the one; Leli took the other one ahead. If I tear it, she and Morrigan might murder me."

"Well, you'll— you'll freeze!" He rushed forward and slipped his arms around her, using his own cloak to shield her. He was wearing one of Teagan's cast off shirts, which was too tight around Alistair's broad chest and shoulders, and so she could vaguely see the outline of his muscles. He was warm, just his… proximity. Like an aura of heat.

He never could hide his embarrassed arousal. She could read the signs on him like an open book. The flame of his skin, the way his thighs clenched when he tried to disguise an erection. Shy, naive, polite, terribly eager to please. It was one of the things she loved about him.

It was a shame she would have to teach him how to to lie with his body language, not just his tongue. His face was too emotive. But there would be time for that later. She craned her neck upward to kiss him with apology. No good to make him suffer. "What did you bring to wear?" he asked, only pulling his mouth half-away from hers, so that it came out mumbled. She can feel his hardness graze her belly.

"Nothing. Well, socks," she admitted. "One of your shirts. And those horrendous plaidweave leggings Sten bought for Morrigan. She tried to feed them to the dog."

"Mmph. Fashionable." His mouth kissed down her jaw and alit upon her ear like a hot little butterfly. Her stomach began to turn in funny flips.

"I was in a hurry, and Leliana packed all my good things. I should have asked Marla, come to think," she said, referring to the elven apothecary-in-training. "She's the only one who's really my size." Lissa's hands snaked their way under his shirt.

"Fuck," Alistair hissed, more in annoyance than arousal. "Your hands are like ice."

She laughed. "Warm them for me?" She playfully slipped one hand under the waist of his breeches.

"No!" he huffed, as a shiver shook through his shoulders. "Don't touch me there. You'll freeze it off." Still, his hips rolled forward against her hand.

"No?" she queried, amused.

Alistair looked conflicted. His hand wandered up her ribs, coming dangerously close to brushing the peak of her breast. "I'll probably regret this. Daft woman. Wearing nothing but a damn cloak in autumn." His cock seemed to burn under her cool touch, and when she grasped the shaft, he groaned in equal parts pleasure and agony. "You should let me set up the tent," he hedged, giving an experimental thrust into her hand. "I'm not doing it out here in the leaves. People might see. The horses might see."

"I thought you'd always wanted your lampost licked in winter," she smirked, waggling her eyebrows.

"That was a metaphor. I was being metaphorical," he protested, reaching down to unlace his breeches. His nostrils flared with every breath, and his lip curled up just a little. There it was. That tiny feral edge behind his charming good-boy templar manners which took her breath away.

They never made it to the tent.

 

 

 

"You've got leaves in your hair," he noticed lazily, with a pleased, sated look on his face. He reached out and plucked something from the tangled mass she called hair.

Her hair was not styled in any sense of the word, but it was washed and combed and tied into a sloppy lump behind her ears, so it was better than it usually was. She envied Leliana's stick-straight ginger hair, always braided perfectly; Solona's waterfall of raven hair, coiled into beautiful shapes; even Morrigan's brown-black tresses, which fell as perfumed waves when she unpinned them at the end of the day.

Oriana— in this moment it only hurt a little to think of her dear sister-in-law— Oriana had this special cream, and once a week she would sit Elissa down and soak her hair in a basin of hot water, apply the stuff with a comb, and rinse it with iced water. It stank, almost eye-wateringly, of roses, to cover the smell of lye. Some sort of Rivaini invention, popular with Antivan women, to make hair soft and glossy. Lissa did not even know the name to find it again.

A week after Oriana died, Elissa cut her hair off. Two feet of curly hair spattered into the dust. Duncan had watched her with a strange expression, almost amused, but made no commentary. Somewhere near the Maker's bosom, her mother wailed in horror. They had powdered and perfumed her, soaked her skin in lemon and her hair in lye, varnished her bitten off fingernails and shaped her boyish frame with padded corsets to make her a lady perfect for Lord Nathaniel Howe and yet—

She was shorn-haired and freckled and Alistair loved her in spite of it. (And Nate had never cared.) So what was it all for? What was the point in being a woman?

"You're a million miles away again," Alistair observed, crushing the dried-up leaf in his fist. "Not still thinking about Maric, I hope." He teased, but there was an edge of worry in his eyes.

"No. I was thinking that you love me."

"I do." He smiled. It was nice. His pupils were large in the waning light. "Feeling sentimental, my dear?"

"I suppose I am. It's been a long while since we did this." She blinked. "How long, do you think?"

"Three, maybe four weeks."

She sat up. "Ah, shit."

Alistair's eyebrows shot up. "What?"

"I forgot… I haven't taken. Leliana's potion, I mean. I haven't taken it since the last time we had sex."

"Oh." He swallowed. "Maybe it doesn't matter?"

"Doesn't matter? Of course it matters! I can't have a baby during a Blight! I'm the fucking Warden!" She lept to her feet, dragging her cloak behind her. It was all wet up the backside from the damp earth. Her smalls were still wrapped around one ankle, stripping her of the last of her dignity. _'Shit. SHIT,'_ she thought. Something wet drooled down her thigh, cooling in the air.

Alistair followed her up, tucking himself back inside his breeches as he went. Maker's breath. "Lis. Lissie. Don't panic." He reached out to comfort her, but apparently thought better of it when she whipped around to look at him. His hands hung stupidly in the air.

"Of course I'm going to bloody well panic, Alistair. Of all the stupid…"

"Wardens can't have children," he blurted.

"What? No. Why?"

"It's just something… they told me. I should have told you. I _meant_ to tell you. Um, one Warden yes, two Wardens no."

"Why?" she repeats, trying to cut through his nervous chatter.

"I… You see, they only told me to make fun. Because I was a templar, and a… a virgin." He managed to say the word without turning totally pink. "I was too… I couldn't… I didn't ask the specifics."

"I see."

"There weren't any female Wardens in Ferelden, anyway. There was an elf, um, Tamarel, before me. She was the only one. At the time I thought—" his eyes widened as he remembered. "Nevermind what I thought, I was being a prick. Obviously, there are female Wardens."

There was a buzzing sound, growing to a soft roar. Her ears were ringing, she recognized belatedly. For an astounding second, she thought she could hear the voice of a child on the road. She spun in that direction— nothing. Bleed-through from the soulbind. Alistair's garden. He was still talking. Lissa couldn't really hear him. He was apologizing, tripping over his own tongue.

"Stop," she said, raising her fist to cut him off. Maker, she wanted to hit him. It would not help things, but she might feel better. "I need to tell you something."


	2. Thorns (Elissa)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains a mention of underage sex

“I was sixteen,” Elissa began, wrapping the edges of her cloak around her like a shield. “Or, fifteen. You would think I would remember better, but really I’ve done my best to forget.” Her mouth felt clumsy, and her bare skin felt clammy under the grating texture of coarse-spun wool. She sat with her legs folded under her, in the cold ashes of someone else’s camp. She opened her mouth again— paused for a long time. Finally, she muttered, “I wasn’t going to tell you about this. No one is left to know.” She could picture so clearly Castle Cousland burning; the stirred up ash evoked the memory.

Alistair, mercifully, had fallen quiet. He sat beside her, and put his hand on her knee. “Whatever it is... “ he tried, but because he did not know where she was headed, he did not know how to finish that sentence.

“That’s not quite right,” she continued, ignoring his interruption. “I think one person might. So I have to tell you. My mother has— had— has—” she could not quite decide on the tense. “Mother was a twin. They run in the family line. The Theirin line, that is. Did you know that?”

“No,” he said.

“King Brandel had a twin, Princess Blair. They each had a daughter who kept the Theirin name. Moira and Fenella.”

“Our grandmothers,” Alistair nodded. “I remember the lesson.” In the rare off moments, she drilled him on royal history and noble allegiances. Her drawing journal had become a compendium of Ferelden, putting faces to the long list of names he was expected to already know as a prince.

“Fenella and Fearchar had four children.” Elissa touched the bridge of her nose, leaving a sooty fingerprint behind. “Three are dead now. The boys died young, boarding an Orlesian warship during the Battle of Denerim Harbor. The remnant— as distasteful as that phrase may be— is Nell Mac Eanraig. It was her daughter who perished from the taint after Ostagar. With Wynda gone, Nell is the last of the lesser Theirin line.”

“Besides you, Lis,” Alistair reminded.

“Besides me,” Lissa agreed, studying her dirty fingertips.

“Then she has a claim on Ferelden’s throne,” he noted carefully. There was something in his voice. Relief. Caution. “She will be at Caer Oswin?”

“Yes. As the Bann of the Storm Coast.”

“And she knows… something about you? Something that happened when you were fifteen or sixteen?” His fingers drummed anxiously across her knee, studying her face with somber eyes. There was a spot that he had missed when shaving, a bristled amber patch on the side of his throat. She fixed her vision upon it, resisting the urge to claw at it with her fingernails. The children of Alistair’s garden were impossible ghosts, whispering in her ears. She fought to drown them out.

“I—” She shook her head. “I cannot be certain she will not use it against me. No, I cannot see a scenario in which she would not. She is very much my mother’s sister.”

“Would telling me help?” he asked.

Her lips pursed. “No, but I do not see another way. There is no love between Nell and I. So you must know.”

Alistair shifted, coming to wrap his arms around her from behind. Elissa had not noticed before, but she was trembling like a dying leaf caught in the autumn wind. It was fitting, somehow, that she be so literally exposed when she told him the full truth. “Whatever it is…” he whispered against the back of her neck. His breath was warm and set her nerves alight. “It won’t change how I feel.”

“It will,” she replied simply, and closed her eyes against the fading sunset. She had not forgiven him, but the anger was somewhat tempered by fear. Mottled orange light bathed her skin through the trees, casting gray shadows in the hollows of her cheeks and throat. Her voice was quite calm, detached as she spoke. She felt like she was floating above the scene, like some other woman was kneeling in the dirt with her lover’s firm arms around her. “I told you there was a scandal, when I was sixteen.”

“When you broke your engagement to Lord Howe.”

“I, Elissa Elethea Cousland, was betrothed to Nathaniel Byron Howe on the day of my dedication to the Chantry.”

Alistair blinked. “That’s quite a mouthful.”

“It is,” she agreed with a wan smile. “I was three months old; he was seven years old. I grew up with the explicit knowledge of my future— husband, home, duty. Some balk against these sorts of arrangements. Maker knows Cailan and Anora had their troubles. But for me it was… I hesitate to use the word _easy_ , but it was not impossible.”

Her first childhood crush. Her first girlhood fantasy. Her first… The memory was blurry, but she could still remember the lines of his face. She’d filled pages of her sketchbook with his angles. Nate was a whip-thin young man, with wiry muscles and the self-satisfied air of the heir to a great estate. Long black hair, strong nose, skin windburned and chapped from days spent climbing the battlements with a bow strapped to his back. He was not conventionally handsome like the prince, even in youth, but he was strong and graceful. He cut the figure of the dashing rogue. When he waltzed, the ladies of the court fluttered their fans with delight, and each fought for a place on his dance card.

On the night of her debut ball in Denerim, fourteen and blemished, in her white satin gown with the bosom padded up to give her a womanly figure, he had finally danced with her. Nate was twenty and change by then, a grown man shackled to a child, dressed in sapphire blue. Amaranthine blue. He never made a mistake, leading her in the reel flawlessly. As if she was not visibly struggling with counting the steps in her head. He was serious and quiet and only kissed her on the cheek when their engagement was formally announced at the height of the ball.

She sighed, feeling Alistair frown against her neck when she lapsed into silence. “Sorry.”

“I’m just a little jealous,” he admitted. He laughed weakly. “Hearing you talk about loving someone else isn’t exactly easy.”

“I can stop,” she offered.

“No. I just… do you still feel like that?”

“Do I still love him?”

He said, “Yeah.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she scoffed, bunching up her fingers into defensive fists. She hated to think about love. It was a power unfathomable, beyond the control of a clever word or a fast knife.

(But she loved to be loved. Still a spoiled child underneath it all.)

He rested a broad hand on top of her own, cupping it and smoothing out her fingers, whispering her name as a gentle admonishment. “Lissie.”

She leaned her head against his chest. There was a hint of sweat and horses about him, and the raw pungency of his seed mixed with her own fluids. Strangely, she found it comforting. “I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s better… more moral, more correct, to say I loved him or that I never did. I’m not sure I know what love is meant to be, Alistair. I can say… I’ve tried not to think on this for a long time. I know what I did. I ruined him.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as all that.”

Nate tried to be a gentleman. She was just Fergus’s kid sister, even if she was supposed to be his fiancee. Then the summer of fifteen came in, and so did her breasts. Accidentally kissing him, and then purposefully kissing him. The bitter, heady scent of oak moss cologne and pine needles on his skin. Ducking their chaperone in the corridors, finding quiet rooms in Vigil’s Keep where the sound of the sea muffled them. Nathaniel teaching her how to move silently, to be invisible, to make make love with danger just around the corner. The thrill of catching him off guard, the surprise on his face when she outpaced him in a foot race. The pride in his smirk when she picked her first lock.

“I got pregnant, Alistair.” Her voice was a hammer striking an anvil.

“Oh,” was all Alistair could manage.

The wind was gone, and the dusk brought a blanket of oppressive stillness. She railed against it. “I was fifteen. Our wedding was to be in the following spring. I… I cared about him. But I could not be sure he loved me. I only found out later, from his sister Delilah, that he felt the same. He could not be sure I loved him, even after I gave myself to him. I’m told I can be difficult to read.” She swallowed harshly. “I panicked. Like a little girl, I ran to my mother to make it all better. She wanted me to stay and tell him, to face my mess with the tattered shreds of my honor. But my father offered me an out.”

“Val Royeaux,” Alistair recognized, in a thick voice.

“Yes. I took the out. I fled to Orlais. I did not understand why Nathaniel’s father banished him to the Marches, why Thomas became the new heir to the arling. It must have been three years before I discovered that Da had made an… allegation of impropriety.”

Alistair stiffened. “Did he? Was—”

“No,” she said quickly. “I tried to fix things, when I learned of it. But it was too late. Nate’s reputation was tarnished. Mine only survived by the grace of the Maker. The rift between our two families could not be bridged.”

“And… and the child?”

“He was born in the rented house in Val Royeaux.” Her voice turned soft and dull. “Born and died without drawing breath.”

Alistair made a soft sound in the back of his throat. “Maker.” The word slid from his lips in prayer.

She shook her head. “He was too early. So very small. I remember thinking he was l-like…” She paused. “Like he was the runt in a mabari litter. Small, but… perfect.”

Alistair’s arms tightened around her. “Oh, Lissie.”

“One moment I was a girl, trying to keep a pup alive, and the next I was supposed to be a mother, burying her child. Only I never felt like one. I was just… numb.” She closed her eyes. “Da’s grief was cloying. I went into the walled garden, barefoot for some reason. It was muddy. It had rained. The earthworms writhed on the paving stones, slowly drowning. Geraldine came to bring me a shawl. I asked her for some paper, and I wrote Nathaniel. I told him a Revered Mother had come to take away our child, and that I could never see him again. I said I was staying in Val Royeaux for good.”

“What changed your mind?”

“King Maric went down in the Waking Sea.”

“Oh.”

For a moment, they were bound together in crystalline, breathless grief. Alistair huffed raggedy into the side of her neck while she searched for some semblance of composure. Her throat and chest ached with tears she refused to shed. She did not deserve them, but she could not manage to swallow them away. The lump caught at her sternum, burning a hole through her insides.

She wept.

“We were obligated to return to Denerim for Maric’s funeral. It wasn’t… immediate. Loghain tried to delay Cailan’s coronation. I think he refused to believe that Maric was gone. Da came back to fix things in the Council. I remember I was sitting in the cathedral, looking down over the balcony, and I saw Oren. A little tot with dark hair, on the lap of Oriana Salazar. Fergus was supposed to be in Antiva. I would have never…” Elissa turned her head, finally brave enough to search Alistair’s gaze for the revulsion she expected to see. It was not there. “Somehow, I loved that child because I could not love my own.”

Alistair kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry.”

She pushed away his sympathy. Her stomach felt hollow. “I killed them.”

“Lissie, you can’t possibly believe that. An evil man did an unspeakable thing to your family. You are not to blame.”

“Aren’t I?” she whispered miserably. “If I had stayed and done my duty then they would be alive.”

“You can’t know that for certain.”

“The funny thing is, I can’t picture Howe as… He was not a just father. He was not a good husband. But he was always kind to me. I play the events of that night back over and over. Terrorizing Nan. Teasing Gilly about the Wardens. Saying goodbye to Fergus. Vespers in the chapel with Mother Mallol. Tucking Oren into bed. Playing cards with Landra, Oriana, and Mother. Dairen, Da, Duncan, and Rendon discussing Cailan’s campaign…” she recited. She knew every movement by rote.

The scent of pipe smoke lingering in her hair. The distraction of the elven maid, Iona, with the sweet eyes and blonde hair. Just her type, although on principle she would never bed a servant. Sneaking back to her bedchamber to steal a few moments talking with a pretty girl. Falling asleep listening to a story of the alienage, with slim fingers combing through her hair. Waking to fire.

“I sent a letter to Starkhaven after I joined the Wardens. But there was no reply. There is unrest in that city. Some sort of coup against the Vaels. No telling if Nate got it. He used to write me fortnightly, before.”

She stood abruptly. Darkness had rolled over them completely, in that sudden way of the waning months nearest to winter. She marched to her pack, chilled to the bone, and fumbled with the latches, searching for clothes and her flint. “You see, I’m not meant to be a mother. It’s good—” she hiccuped noisily, as water streamed down either side of her nose. She refused to acknowledge the tears. “It’s good that you and I can’t— it’s better this way. The Maker must want this. My father blamed me. The last thing he said to me was, _‘Our family always does their duty first.’_ ”

She jerked the trousers up over her hips, felt the smooth, unmarked flesh which should have been mottled with silver stripes. The Orlesian ointments had been efficient. One would never know from her skin that she had once borne a child.

“You hate that word. _Duty._ You always say it like it’s a curse. Now I see why.” Alistair’s voice was hard when he caught her. “But don’t hide from me now. Don’t you shut me out, Lissa. Because I can feel you trying in the bind.” He turned her with firm hands, surprisingly gentle. Reluctantly, she faced him again. His nose and cheeks were blotchy like he had been crying. Had he? She had not noticed. “I don’t know how you do it, how you go on with all of these things strapped to you— Thedas weighing down your back. How do you bear it?” His eyes darted past her. “I— wait here.”

Alistair darted to his pack, and pulled a bundle of rags from the bottom. He unwrapped the bundle and unscrewed the lid on a glass jar. She took a hesitant step closer, confused when he stood clutching a flower. “Alistair?”

“Here, look at this. Do you know what this is?”

“Your rose. I’ve caught you thumbing it from time to time.” She clutched it tightly in her fist, feeling the bite of the thorns tear into her palm. The head of the flower was unblemished, perfect as the day it was plucked, with silky petals the color of blood.

“I picked it in Lothering. I remember thinking, ‘How could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness.' I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn’t. The darkspawn would come and their taint would just destroy it. So I’ve had it ever since.”

“A trophy?”

“I thought… I’ve been working up the nerve to give it to you, actually. Don’t tell Morrigan it took me so long, she’ll laugh.”

“I promise.”

“In a lot of ways, I think the same thing when I look at you. I thought maybe I could say something. Tell you what a rare and wonderful thing you are to find amidst all this… darkness.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, taken aback.

“You know I love you, right? Maybe it was a stupid impulse, or I did it at the wrong time. I… Oh! You’re bleeding!” he gasped, grabbing her fingers and forcing her hand open. A second drop of crimson followed the first in a trail which curved gracefully down her wrist. “Damn it. I’m sorry. I should have cut them smooth.”

“No, it’s perfect.” She cracked a pale smile. “Do you think I’m thorny?”

“No, but now I’m a little worried about your self preservation instincts. Didn’t it hurt?” Alistair chuckled grimly. “No, don’t answer that, my dear.” He bound her bleeding palm with his handkerchief. “Listen. I know it was a terrible thing. I can’t begin to imagine how you must feel. But I cannot believe that the Maker never wants you to love another child. You care too deeply and too honestly, and I’ve seen the way you care for the refugee children we meet in our travels. How you grieve for them.”

“But we can never. You said so yourself. We’re tainted.”

“We’ll find a way. If it’s what you want. There must be a cure… Some magic we can try. We seem to have an excess of mages.” He pressed his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. “And I hesitate to mention it, but we’re both technically descendants of Calenhad. Either one of us, by ourselves, could produce a royal heir. Not that I'm suggesting we...”

 She shuddered. “No. Together, or not at all.”


	3. Honesty (Solona)

The staff shot upwards, and with a tremendous _CRACK_ the genlock’s leering face turned to pulp and bone. Solona grunted with exertion, flashed her barrier to shield herself from the spray of noxious black blood, and pivoted on her heel to launch a magical strike at the next darkspawn coming. The little fireballs channeled through her staff wobbled along their path, leaving streaks of glimmering hot air in their wake. “Shit!” she mumbled to herself, sparing a second to watch them miss and snuff out in the scorched grass. “I think I just fucked up the attuning focus.”

Well, she would have to correct for the damage. She steadied her footing on the smooth stone beneath her boots and channeled her will into a burst of flashfire, pushing the spawn back against the sheer face of the cliff. Above her on the ledge, Cullen was closing the distance on an emissary, summoning splashes of blue-white light to counter its magic. Cullen and Solona kept their distance from each other, lest he hit her with an errant bolt and smite the daylights out of her. Even still, she was over-sensitive to the prickle of his nullifying aura. It kept eating away at her barrier.

The root of the problem was that templars and mages were not trained in cooperative combat. Battlemages usually worked alone and always at great distance, controlling the flow of battle from a high vantage over the field. Foot soldiers tended to get nervous in the proximity of mages. And templar abilities ran wild when the lyrium burned too brightly in their blood. Unpredictable as chain lightning, they worked side by side with other templars, who would not be affected by the runoff. Alistair, at least, had seemingly adapted his tactics to work in close quarters with Morrigan, but in light of his recent confession she could not be certain that other templars could replicate his precision.

Her teeth ached. She ground her molars together to combat the funny numbness in her cheeks, which marked the onset of a migraine. Her mana struggled to compensate for the exertion of the fight and the persistent drain of Cullen’s presence. She reached for her belt, grasping for the vials of lyrium tucked into leather bands, and came up empty.

Shit.

“Look out!” Cullen bellowed from the edge of the cliff. He cast about for the fastest path down the steep trek to her. They were poised on the edge of a rocky outcropping on the face of a great verdant hillside. Dozens of small caves dotted the region, usually the home of local smugglers who worked for the dwarven Carta, but currently occupied by the darkspawn equivalent to ‘forward scouts’. Cullen’s ledge was about fifteen feet above Solona’s. Below her was the wide valley, a sheer drop into the orange treeline.

“I’m looking!” she said curtly, finding herself short of breath. She pulled her hand away from her belt to get a better grip on her weapon. Darkspawn were coming fast and thick from the incursion she had come to seal, pressing their advantage as her spells began to sputter. The Carta had excavated right into the Deep Roads to construct themselves a profitable den away from the patrols on the King’s highway. The highway ran parallel to the river below them. Best not to think of the drop.

Solona rotated her staff so that the bladed end faced outward, and wielded it as a polearm. As she swung out in a crescent of superheated air, the hurlocks closest to her burst into flames, which briefly drove the mob back. She could not step backwards. The ledge was composed of frangible rock, and might give way under her weight. Briefly, she wished she could be like Morrigan, and metamorphose into a thing with wings.

“Hold on! I’m coming!” Cullen shouted. He retraced his steps backward toward the path on the hillside, heedless to the pair of shrieks on his tail.

Solona hissed in alarm and threw him a barrier. Before it could shield him, it withered in a flash of smoke, with a sound like shattering glass. “Drop your aura!”

“Why? I have a shield.” He lifted it to demonstrate its efficacy. “I do not need your help. If anything, you need mine!”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“I— Yes! Of course I do!”

“Then listen to me!”

She swore she could read his reluctance, even through his helmet, but there was no time. Her diaphragm relaxed as the ability faded, and with it went the impression that someone was standing on her chest. One cool, calm breath— that was all she needed. She grasped for the last of her mana, knowing that it was going to hurt, but that she had no other options. She was cornered, and the only ways out were through the darkspawn or off the side of a cliff.

First, the barriers. A dull, reverberating _WHOMP_ , a sustained bass note, vibrated the air. The mage and the templar were bathed in green light. “Come on,” she told herself, digging past her reserves. “Just once more.”

Solona drove her staff into the stone and the air… split. A score of darkspawn were lifted off their feet; with them came plumes of dirt, small stones, and torn grass. They hung there briefly, the smiles shocked right off their disgusting faces, and then they smashed into the earth with tremendous force. Bones and armor shattered. Flesh ripped like paper. A fountain of bile and ichor rained down upon them, in thick globules, rolling down the shimmering slick of magic barrier.

Not fire, then. She’d thought it would be fire.

The mage blinked. The sound was audible in her pounding head. The horizon tilted on its axis, and she slumped, still clutching her staff for dear life when her knees hit the ground. She saw Cullen peel away his helmet and throw it aside. It clattered against the rocks. His cheeks were mottled red and his curly hair was soaked with sweat. She scanned him quickly for evidence of the tainted blood, and was satisfied that at least she had protected him. Before her, where the Veilstrike had landed, the ledge began to crack.

Her vision blackened at the edges; the center was strange and too bright. Cullen’s face, creased with concern, swam out of view. “Are you hurt? Where were you hit?”

“I’m fine,” she said, or she tried to say, at least. Her tongue was filled with a burst of hot coppery flavor. Blood poured in a gush from her nose.

A strange sound beneath her. The stone moaned like a living creature. Small pieces began to crumble at the lip of the bluff. The first clinks of falling rock brushing the foliage were musical, sweet as rain. Cullen dashed forward, always nimble even in his heavy plate armor, and grabbed her by the armpits, lifting her back onto her feet. “Maker’s breath,” he said sharply, with an edge of something in his commanding voice, “can you even walk?”

Solona staggered one unconvincing step forward and knocked into his breastplate. “Yes.”

“There’s no time for this.” He frowned. “Let me carry you.”

She batted him away. “No.” It took all her concentration not to vomit on his polished templar boots.

“We cannot stay here,” he said, narrowing his eyes. A flicker of annoyance registered on his face, and as she was trying to work out what she had done wrong, he scooped her up into his arms, staff and all. It was not a graceful maneuver, as while she did not have the strength to fight him, she also did not have the strength to assist him.

“You do not look fine,” he commented dryly, as he hefted her away the cliffs like an unwieldy baby.

She flashed him bloody teeth in response. “No one likes a glib templar.”

“Alistair seems to do fine.” He smiled but it did not reach his eyes.

“Alistair’s naturally charming. You’re just a pain in the ass.” He snorted at that. Her head bounced off his pauldron, and the sky lurched out of focus. She gagged, and swallowed a mouthful of foulness. “I’m going to pass out.”

“Do not faint or I may drop you,” he cautioned.

“Then put me down!” She had intended to be acerbic but it was more pathetic. She tried to lift her hand to pinch off her nose and the motion proved to be too much. “Shit,” she moaned by way of feeble warning.

“Sola, don’t you—”

 

* * *

 

 

When she came to again, Solona was flat on her back with her arms by her sides. A yelp rose in the back of her throat but she clamped her lips together. Not a spongy, rotten mattress under her head. Her surroundings were cool and dark. Her fingers scrambled, digging into the loose soil beneath her, gripping for bearing as the world whirled around her at high velocity. If she moved, she would vomit, she just knew it. Again, by the rancid taste in her mouth.

She took a shallow breath from her one useable nostril— beyond the stench of blood was fresh earth and… oak barrels? Something sharp, and astringent. Alcohol. She remembered there had been mosswine in the barrels in one of the Carta caves. Not potable for humans, but good for cleansing. The taint clung to everything it touched, a poisonous mold, unless exposed to strong alcohol or hot fire.

“Cullen?” she whispered carefully, not trusting herself to open her eyes more than a crack.

“There you are,” he said. The humor had gone right out of his voice, leaving him with only naked worry. “You have been out for a while. I thought I might have to find Wynne.”

“I told you I was going to faint,” she answered matter-of-factly, which was her way. She licked her lips, and found a trace of dried blood. She searched for a tactful way of saying _‘Did I puke on you?’_ Nothing sprang to mind, so she tried a vague,“I didn’t… get it on you, did I?”

Cullen caught her meaning, ruefully smiling. “I dodged it. Mostly.”

Solona clutched a fistful of dirt into a tight ball. “Cullen, I’m mortified.”

“Don’t be. You warned me, but I am afraid I was too busy saving your life. The whole shelf of rock gave way.” He settled something cold and wet on her forehead. “It was not my finest moment either.”

“Thank you.” The cloth on her head provided a little relief, though it seemed so heavy that it anchored her to the ground.

“I’ve seen the symptoms before, from— Well, I suppose you know what a smite looks like.” He had the decency to look pained. His hand rubbed the back of his neck, and he scowled. “You drained your mana with that spell.”

“I overtaxed myself.”

“It was much more than that. Feeling you go limp in my arms was… I am not prepared to relive that experience.”

“Not so much scraping the bottom of the barrel as punching straight through it, huh?” She smiled, with her tongue between her teeth. “Feels like I was the barrel. Punched.”

“I’ve never seen you use force magic before.”

“I was picturing a whirlwind of fire. It came out wrong.”

“It was accidental?”

“Do not get prickly, templar. I’m tired. Just because I teach primal spells does not mean I cannot branch into other schools.”

“It’s been my understanding that most mages cannot.”

“Since when am I ‘most mages’, hm? Irving gave me the teaching post because I can demonstrate all the offensive elements without lighting a student on fire. Well, that and the spot was open. It’s not even my favorite.”

“Far be it for me to besmirch your many talents,” he demurred. Cullen rested a hand on the side of her cheek and ran his thumb around the shell of her ear. Solona shivered weakly. Maker, he hadn’t touched her like that in how long? She let him linger, afraid of scaring him off.

“I took a chance. I knew it would have to be big. And look, it paid off.”

“It nearly killed you, Sol.”

“An unintended side effect, I will admit. I was actually trying to save our lives.”

He laughed. The warm sound settled in her bones. “How do you feel?”

Solona took stock. Her shoulders ached, the base of her skull was throbbing, and her mouth needed a good scrubbing. She brought her hand to rest on the soft swell of her belly. A fluttery sensation, like the brush of a moth’s wings in the lamp light, followed her touch. “Alive,” she answered.

A crease appeared between his eyes. “I suppose that’s… good?”

Solona wondered if he remembered the warmth of the first harried, wild kiss between them. She was a junior enchanter, and he a strange new templar assigned to her library. The man turned flame-red every time she passed him by, and all her friends teased her about his unsubtle crush. She’d finally worked up the nerve to tell him off when next she caught him alone, but it was he who made the next move.

Rutherford brought her a cup of hot chocolate— Maker only knew how he had acquired it— and an apology, promising that on the next rotation he would get himself assigned someplace else.

Her stomach dropped in dismay at his pronouncement. She could not work out why. Amell had never been closer to Knight-Lieutenant Rutherford than this— she found he smelled pleasantly, of fresh soap and chocolate foam. Although she was a tall, broad shouldered woman, he was larger in every facet, which took her by surprise. He was so gentle, so earnestly apologetic, so disarmingly good looking that she caught herself patting his armored elbow and telling him it was quite all right, she had never noticed any hint of impropriety between them. He sighed with relief, and left her wondering about the kind of man who could work out her favorite drink before he had the nerve to talk to her.

Two weeks of his stone-faced blank expressions when she walked by, and she was no closer to solving that puzzle. It was worse than the blushing. Now he made her skin itch. So she did the only thing she could think to do— she pushed Rutherford into the stacks. A quick snog would suss him out, like it almost always did, and she could go back to life as usual in the tower.

At first he flailed, caught off guard by her sudden advance. She’d almost let him go when his hands suddenly came to grip her behind the elbows. He kissed her back, and he was _good._ He wasn’t supposed to be good. The press of his lips shocked her, like the electric jolt of pure lyrium. Her feet stuck to floor, paralyzing her with unexpected bliss. Amell had kissed her share of mages— and none of them had felt like that. She was still frozen, her full breasts squashed against his chestplate, when he broke away.

_“You said—” he said._

_“Did I?” she said. “It was an accident.”_

_“That did not feel like an accident,” he said with that clumsy templar frankness which she usually could not stand, but found endearing on him._

_“I fell into this bookshelf. You caught me.”_

_“With my mouth?”_

_“If you like,” she agreed. “It could be other places.”_

_Color flooded his face. “Yeah,” he agreed. His throat bobbed in a swallow. His brown eyes fixed on her mouth, then on her bare collarbones._

A year together. One nearly perfect year. The more serious it became, the more careful they were not to get caught. Unlike her previous dalliances, there could be no middlemen to pass notes or stand guard. Time between them was nearly impossible, even for a lieutenant and an enchanter. Perhaps, especially for a lieutenant and an enchanter. As a mage, she knew all the best hiding places, but that ran the risk of _other_ mages finding them.

Eventually they’d discovered a disused storage cupboard behind the statue of Eleni Zinovia. They used it precisely once before Jowan discovered she wore the key to the basement on a chain around her neck. Solona closed her eyes at the memory, and when she opened them again, Cullen was returning to her with a dusty bottle in his hands.

“You look like warmed-over death.” He sounded apologetic.

“Thanks.” It came out in a huff of air; her voice was rough to her ears. She squeezed the lump of earth in her left hand.

“I found this hidden behind the barrels,” he offered, as she pulled herself into a semblance of a sitting position.

“I told you, humans can’t drink mosswine. And I wouldn’t want to even if I could.”

Cullen uncorked it with a knife. “I think this might be different.”

Solona palmed the neck of the dusty brown bottle and gave it a careful sniff. The paper label had rotted away in the damp. “Antivan Sip-Sip,” she pronounced, and eagerly took a swallow. It burned her tongue and throat going down, and her eyes watered. Nasty stuff. Fermented hot peppers and fruit. But it washed the taste of bile from her mouth.

“How can you tell?” Cullen asked, mildly impressed. She handed it back to him.

“It’s my party trick. Great-Aunt Lucille thought an interesting lady had to know more than just dancing, drawing, and singing. We learned all the fashionable card games, too, but Max was always better than me. Ah— careful. You might not like it.”

Her warning came too late. Cullen cringed around his mouthful. “Maker’s breath,” he complained. “Nobles drink this?”

“Marchers who play at being pirates. And actual pirates, one assumes. I’m surprised to see it squirreled away in Ferelden. Doesn’t seem like your kind of drink.”

“Give me a proper ale any day,” Cullen agreed, licking spice from the backs of his teeth.

She opened her mouth and an entirely different question fell out. “Cullen, do you think… don’t you think we should talk about Kinloch?”

His face hardened. He folded his arms across his chest. “No.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if we just…”

“I said NO, Solona. I thought you of all people knew better than to ask!”

“You know me, always poking my nose where it doesn’t belong,” she said, trying and failing to keep the hurt out of her tone. “Can you even look at me and see _just_ me?”

Cullen made a sharp noise, and when he spoke, his voice was like a lash. “Fine, if you want to talk so bad, we’ll talk. Right after you tell me what happened in the cells.” A nerve twitched on one of his eyelids.

“No!” An impulse, as powerful as his own. She drew her knees up and hugged them. “Damn it,” she said after a long moment.

On the far side of the cave there was a wall composed of wooden slats. Painted on this wall was the black sun insignia of the Carta, above a shorter-than-average doorway, with a locked door. The scaffolding held a number of wine casks. Again, the black sun was branded on the lids, along with some numbers that she might have made sense of if she had access to Carta records. The structure was nearly full, but for a single empty place. The liberated barrel was propped up on the table with a tap in it. A wide, dark puddle in the dirt below it suggested that Cullen had been using it to clean. That accounted for the smell.

The silence between them stretched. It was a tense, vile thing.. Solona found that she could bear it for just a little longer, but she was not sure Cullen could. The fall of the Tower, his week of torture at the hands of demons and blood mages, the death of his parents to the Blight… if she did not give him something back, there would be nothing left of the sweet-tempered young man who wooed her with hot chocolate.

Just…

Solona had a problem.

She had done her damnedest to ignore it. When her course had failed to come on its appointed day, she had barely noticed, distracted by Jowan’s plot to access the apprentice phylacteries. Then she had been arrested. And it was just the smallest, twisted mercy to not have to beg the templar standing guard for rags.

She had enough humiliation. Her pride could suffer no more. She had used her privacy spells, until Knight-Templar Edgar thought to bind her with a pair of magebane cuffs usually reserved for prisoner transport. She wised quickly to his game. Edgar liked to _watch_. He was not on duty all the time, of course, and the others would free her hands with soft chiding noises, like they were a sympathetic parent and she a naughty child left in the corner.

As though she deserved it.

In the first days of imprisonment, she had been fairly calm. It was all a mistake. Plenty of time to craft the potion which would bring on a delayed menses. She understood that the Knight-Commander would be busy for a day or two, cleaning up, and making new phylacteries to replace the broken ones. Then there would be a hearing, and her part in the mess would be absolved. Her uncle would vouch for her. Certainly he would. There was no way for her to know, then, that Greagoir was punishing Irving for taking tower justice into his own hands. That she was to be an _example_ — even the First Enchanter’s beloved niece was not above templar law.

After a week, when no one came for her, and neither did the blood, she began to tell herself a little story, pacing the confines of her cage. Three strides by four. Cullen would switch shifts with Maithe and come to see her. Cullen’s usual rota was in the enchanter’s library. Maithe could be bribed with a lazy afternoon in the sunny library. With a hushed word, Solona could direct Cullen to Leorah, the sympathetic older elf who ran the potions laboratory. Surely Cullen would come eventually.

For a month she waited, burning tally marks into the edge of her thin, dirty mattress. Scores of similar marks chronicled the days of those who came before her— on the bedpost, on the wall, even gouged into the floor. She whispered to Lily across the aisle, promising her with gentle lies that everything would be just fine. As long as she had Lily, she would not be completely alone. Eventually, someone in authority would have to come for a Chantry acolyte. (Even if they would not come for a mage.)

Days became meaningless in her cage. No windows to hint at day or night. The world of the tower condensed into one narrow hallway. From beyond the bars she could see the guard desk with its solitary lantern illuminating the stack of books the templars used to amuse themselves. Time existed in six hour shifts— Roxie, Edgar, Maithe, Bren, RoxieEdgarMaitheBren… Sleep during Edgar’s shifts. Don’t let him catch you awake.

One day Edgar put the cuffs on just a little too tight. She said nothing, knowing that by the time Maithe came her wrists would be swollen and sore, but refusing to give him the pleasure of her reaction. His eyes glinted with bright excitement as he told her that Uldred’s battlemages had returned from the King’s service. The king was dead. War was coming. Even as he spoke, the enchanters were convening to plan for the Blight.

“A curious thing happened after three weeks in a cell,” Solona said, lifting her stare from the dirt floor to meet Cullen's gaze. “The guards stopped coming. We ran out of water. Lily could not bear the thirst.  I remember listening to the flies buzz over her body. I could not see, because the light had gone out. The noise was so loud, I could barely hear the demon offering me freedom if I gave up my body. I do not remember Kinnon finding me on the third day. I understand I was quite delirious from dehydration.”

“Why didn’t you give in?” Cullen asked. He looked… haggard. Older than his years. His knuckles were white around the neck of the bottle.

She did not have an answer for that. “When the Warden found you… When _I_ found you, you needed water desperately. I wanted to help you. You said—”

“Solona, don’t.”

“—’I don't want anything from you’,” she finished. “Does that still hold true?”

Cullen grimaced. “I was in a sorry state when you found me. The things I said were… unkind. Untoward. I regret them now. You know that. I should not have goaded you into this— talking of the tower. When I think of it, I am not myself. I wish only to forget.”

“Can you tell me how they used me against you?”

“No. I cannot. It is… unspeakable,” he admitted, bowing his head. “Please, do not ask that of me.” A fragile plea.

Solona outstretched her open palm, setting it against his shin. “Cullen, I really do not know a better way to say this, but I’m pregnant.”

He flinched, from head to toe, like she had extended her hand to burn him. The corners of his eyes creased into tiny lines. His lips worked silently, in nonsense syllables, in silent blasphemies. “Does the father know?” he asked at length.

Solona did her best to disguise the fact he had just stomped up and down on her heart. All that was left in the aftermath was a cold, hollow place in her chest. “He does now.”

Cullen… laughed. A quick burst of incredulous disbelief. “That’s not possible.”

Her stomach twisted. “Are you accusing me of something?”  
  
“But the last time we— _did that_ — was months ago!” he exclaimed. “That was four months ago. Before you were arrested. Before… before…” All the fight slowly drained from his expression, leaving only a trembling mouth and eyes bigger than she’d ever seen on him. “You sat down there, in a cell— with my child. That is not possible. You can’t have—” his voice broke. “The Maker would never be so cruel. You didn’t tell me.” He scanned her face, read her like an open book. “You didn’t tell anyone?”

“I had to hide it.”

“But—”

“How would you hide a mageborn infant, Cullen?” She wanted to be cutting. It came out hollow. “Will you smuggle it behind your templar shield back into the tower, like one of Anders’s kittens?”

“No child of mine will live in that place,” he exclaimed, surprising both of them with his vehemence.

“You know the Chantry won’t let me keep it.”

“Stay with the Grey Wardens.”

“The Wardens will have no use for a pet mage who cannot perform her duties. Cousland sees people only by the measure of their usefulness. When I get too big, my usefulness will run out. And you have my phylactery, so I can’t run far.”

“You want to run from me?” he said softly, wounded. “Have I been that terrible?”

“No.” A beat. “But it would be easier for you if I left. It’s one thing to bed a mage. But to put a child on her— There will be consequences.”

“Damn the consequences, Sola. Do you really think so little of me? Were you ever going to tell me?”

“You really don’t want me to answer that!”

“Ah.”

She bit her lip. “I didn’t mean it like that.” Tentatively, she touched his cheek, letting her fingers rasp against his stubble. “I’m sorry. I’ve always had the damndest luck.”

Cullen leaned forward, looking for all the world like he wanted to kiss her, but he paused. “It is my fault. I was the one who fell in love.”

“Really?” she said lightly, caught off guard.

“From the first minute I laid eyes on you.”

“Your ‘ill-advised infatuation’?”

“Please. It was much worse than that.”

“I was the one who kissed you.”

“I know. I was working up to it. You rather ruined my plans.”

“But you stopped looking at me.”

“Only because I thought I would burst! And you never gave me any clue.”

“So what was your plan, then?”

“I could…” he folded his hands in his lap, “bring you things. Gifts. Food from outside the tower. I saw that you liked my apology chocolate, so I asked Carroll to find more. And then, maybe, I might read a book, and give it to you to read, too. Then we would have something in common.”

“You wanted to court me?” she said with disbelief.

“I wanted to marry you,” he blurted. “Maker. Hopefully I would not have said it like that.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

Solona went still. She had played this conversation out in her head a dozen times. In none of them had he proposed.  “Do you still feel that way?”

“We broke up,” he said simply, the awkward half-smile diminishing on his lips.

She winced. “I…” But what could she say?

“I followed you. I knew you did not want me, but I asked the Knight-Commander for leave to protect you anyway. But when I caught up, you had already decided. What could I do, beg?”

Wait. What? “Cullen, _you_ broke up with _me_. Beneath the Harrowing Chamber.”

“I never meant any of that. I was not in my right mind. The Warden told me— she called me your ex lover. I thought it had all been settled in my absence.” Cullen shook his head in dawning disbelief. “Do you mean to tell me you still…?”

“Yes.”

“I have been such a fool,” he breathed, and finally, he kissed her.


	4. Bile (Solona)

But it was not as simple as that.

Greedy for just one more moment, and hating her own weakness, Solona let Cullen kiss her. His mouth moved slowly, with cautious hesitance, against her full lips. His were cool, and soft, but out of practice, and he pricked her with the bristle of his moustache before correcting himself. She sighed heavily, listening to the erratic drips of mosswine _spat_ into the mud. A second sound of water, similarly soft— the stalactites crying limestone tears into the yearning fingers of their stalagmite sisters. So intently did she listen that she forgot to move her mouth.

Cullen stilled, but he did not pull back.

Solona opened her eyes. His face loomed large in her senses. The whisper of his breath on her cheek, the smell of sword oil, the dark eyelashes on his closed lids. How hard would it be to lean forward and fall back into him? Once he had nearly consumed. The passion of her desire had quickened her heart, dulled her thoughts, let her take risks with incalculable consequences. Solona had denied herself everything before Cullen. He was meant to be like a like a dream lover, ephemeral and fleeting in the face of the dawn, something lovely she could replay in her memories. He was meant to be a lazy day in the warm sun, not— this. Bittersweet kisses in a dying country.

Life in the Tower was a world of frozen un-reality. Like living in the Fade. No one changed or grew. No one married. No one left. No one was _allowed_. It was understood. The birth of babies was not a great joy, but a tragedy to be quietly swept away. The Circle never changed. People moulded themselves to it, embraced it, or they died.

Solona still had one foot stood in that world. She was cold, chilled to the marrow. She was Eleni Zinovia, encapsulated in stone. Stone-hearted.

"What?" she heard him ask. _What's wrong? What do you need?_

"We cannot do this again."

Cullen sucked in a breath, and he exhaled noisily. It took him a moment to speak, but when he did, it was with unnatural calm. "I see," he said. "I presumed— I should not. Apologies." By degrees, he moved away, leaving a bloodless hole carved between them.

"Yes." The scent of lyrium on his breath suddenly made her stomach churn. Her palms began to sweat, and she rubbed them anxiously on the rough underside of her leather surcoat. "I mean— No." She stood up, needing to be away from him before she said something foolish.

A bark of involuntary laughter slipped from his mouth. "Which is it?" he spoke with a keener edge. "Dare I ask— yes or no?"

She searched herself for an answer to that and came up empty.

His head swivelled to track her as she limped to her staff, which rested against the cave wall. When she wrapped one clammy fist around the wooden length, the wound in her mana pulsed angrily. The pain nearly knocked her back to her knees.

"Solona?" He was asking her… something. She could feel his eyes on her.

' _Don't follow me,'_ she thought loudly, but did not speak the words out loud. The stone threatened to swallow her up.

She went outside.

After so long in the dark, the afternoon sun was blinding. White light filled her vision, and throbbed red behind her eyelids when she blinked. Crisp fall air blew over her claustrophobic skin and filled her lungs with cold breaths.

It hurt to walk. Though she was injured in a metaphysical sense, the pain endured. And so did she. Solona trekked up the slope and away from the cave, until she had an unimpeded view of the stunning expanse of mountainous green countryside. She huffed for breath in the thin air. It would not do to have the darkspawn ambush her now, not when she could not call upon her magic.

Her hand shot up to her throat, and after a moment of panicked fumbling she pulled free a plain silver amulet on a sturdy leather cord. Her thumb traced the etching of a griffin. They called it a "Warden's Oath."

* * *

" _Wait a moment," Alistair called after her, jerking something free from around his neck. The second amulet he wore, that of Andraste, flashed in the light. "You'll need this more than I do."_

_He pressed a round trinket into the palm of her hand. It was still warm from his skin, nearly hot to the touch. Wardens burned._

" _What is it?" she asked, studying his face. She did not look down at where their fingers met._

" _We're still friends, aren't we?"_

" _Of course we are. It doesn't matter to me if you're a Seeker or the King of Antiva."_

" _How about the King of Ferelden?"_

" _That, too." Solona cracked a flimsy smile. "You'll do fine, Alistair." Her fingers closed around his gift._

" _Thank you." Suddenly, Alistair covered her hands with his own. The calluses on his broad hands raked against her soft brown skin. She did not pull away. "Duncan called it a Warden's Oath. It has a little of the Joining potion sealed inside. It sort of hums when darkspawn are near."_

" _Won't you need it?"_

_He grinned at the thought. "No. I'm already one big walking darkspawn detector. I thought… you could show this to anybody and they would know you are one of us."_

" _You mean templars."_

" _Sure." He squeezed her hands. "Or, you know, you could use it to go home. Back to Ostwick. Wardens can go anywhere without papers."_

" _But Loghain..."_

" _Not everywhere, not yet. I want you to know that you have options. Bann Alfstanna still holds Waking Sea. We're sending Evelina. Some of the orphans are… gifted."_

" _It wouldn't do to have it said the Prince was sheltering mages," Solona acknowledged._

_Alistair shook his head emphatically but kept his voice quiet. "We send them to Jainen and they become a part of the system. But if we send them where nobody knows…"_

" _You're smuggling them. Where?"_

" _Ansburg, via Kirkwall. Teagan thinks the Margravine will help us."_

" _She might."_

" _You know Thalia Aurum?"_

_Solona shrugged. "I'm a Trevelyan. I know everyone."_

_The Trevelyans were a self-important family, too interested in gossip and infighting to form a dynasty to rival the Penderghasts. Spread thinly across the Free Marches, Nevarra, and the Tevinter Imperium, it was easy enough for the Trevelyans to overlook Bann Ricard's absurd brood._

_If it wasn't for their matriarch, Lucille, Solona would have given up on the family entirely. Her Great-Aunt Lucille was the widow of previous teyrn of Ostwick and mother of the current one. Lucille— elegant, ageless, dangerously efficient. She threw the only Marcher balls which had both Antivans and Orlesians vying for invitations. Celene Valmont had once been a regular guest. It was rumored that even King Maric and Queen Rowan attended the summer ball, before the queen took ill._

_Lucille, darling Lucille, cared not a whit that her nephew's children were all mages. She had the fortune to be above such petty things. Wealthier than the Maker Himself, it was said, and so pious with her tithes. She'd helped in elevating Irving to the chair of First Enchanter, and she fully intended to sponsor the others in a similar fashion. Where coin could not reach, the fingers of her influential friends might stretch. Solona's twin, Maxwell, was a clerk to the Grand Enchanter. Katarina was the mistress of a Vael princeling. Elspeth was the senior healer in the quiet little Hasmal Circle. Only Daylen, sequestered in Kirkwall's silent Gallows, was untouchable. Knight-Commander Stannard answered no one, it seemed, but herself. Not to the Viscount, and not to the Grand Cleric._

_And this was precisely Solona's concern. "Don't send them to Kirkwall. The templars there are not like the templars we know."_

" _It's the only Marcher port still taking Fereldan ships. That is, unless someone knows the Teryn of Ostwick."_

" _Funny, Alistair. Your lips moved, but I swear Elissa's voice came out."_

_He released her hands. "I'm a pale imitation." He chuckled faintly. "Just… don't think you are backed into a corner yet."_

_Solona looked down, and unclasped her fingers to examine the Warden amulet. True to his word, it softly resonated in Alistair's proximity. What was it like, she wondered, to have that tainted magic in the whole of your being? Did it start slowly? If he was carved in twain, would his heart be already spiderwebbed with black? "As your friend, I think I have to warn you about Lady Cousland. She's using you, you know."_

_He stiffened, defensive. "Because you are my friend, I'll let that comment pass. It might... seem like that to you. But you don't know what she has given up."_

" _If you go to Oswin they will make you their king. There's your corner. There's your Circle. You won't get out again." She exhaled. "I know you don't want this."_

_The muscle in his jaw worked for a moment as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. "You don't know what I want."_

" _Freedom, Alistair, the most precious gift of all. Somehow, despite the condition of your birth and your magical talents, you're still free. No one else can say that. And you're throwing it away with both hands!"_

" _The thing is… I love her. If she were a commoner, I'd build her a cottage in her home village. If she were a mage, I'd join the templars again to live in her Circle. If she were Orlesian I'd—" A short laugh. "Well, let's not drag this out too much. If I walk away, she is still the next in line. And Elissa will never walk away. She's just not built like that. She doesn't run. It would be a— a privilege, to be a King to her Queen. Yes, I'm still scared to death, but not for my sake."_

" _Would you untangle the soulbind, if you could?"_

" _No." His face turned haunted. Pale lips confessed: "I think it would kill her."_

* * *

"What is the oath?" she had asked Wynne.

In Peace, Vigilance.

In War, Victory.

In Death, Sacrifice.

It was not her oath. But the Blight was everyone's fight.

Solona took her time examining her broken staff. The mounting for the crystal focus was warped badly. The aurium teeth were mangled, barely holding their shape. This was a repair for an arcanist, not a blacksmith. It was little wonder her spell had gone so awry!

In the valley below her she could see the kingsroad, and the wide river beside it which stretched between Lake Calenhad and the Waking Sea. Solona and Cullen were the vanguard to a caravan of refugees— mostly women, children, and the elderly— traveling north from Redcliffe before the southern snows came. Wynne, Shale, and Evelina travelled with the caravan. Their destination was a northern village about two miles north from her feet, as the crow flies. They called it Crestwood.

It was a mill town, powered by a tremendous dam, the likes of which Solona had never seen before. Dwarven engineering, one assumed. She could see it clearly from this height. The town was built in the dried-up lakebed, and had expanded piecemeal up into the hills. It had its own keep, a small caer built during the Orlesian invasion, but since its lord lived in Jainen, it was ruled by a mayor. Gregory Dedrick was used to being rather independent, and had only reluctantly agreed to harbor refugees in exchange for a significant quantity of raw grain from Redcliffe's silos.

The hills beyond Crestwood were full of darkspawn, bandits, and smugglers. Solona and Cullen had kept busy.

There was a buzzing sensation against her collarbone, like an insect trapped under her clothes. The amulet. Darkspawn! Her first instinct was to warn Cullen, and it was so intense that she was forced to clamp her fist against her mouth to stifle the scream. Without her magic, silence was their best chance at survival.

What direction were they coming from? She spun around, looking for sunken faces and black swords. The shadows were lengthening in the late sun. Quickly she determined she would run downhill, and cast herself into the fickle mercies of the river. Her gloved hands slid along her staff. Under the gloves, her palms were blistered, but she ignored the sting. Even without mana it was a hefty weapon, and it might buy her a few seconds.

But instead of a loping band of darkspawn, two small figures pushed free of the bushes. One leaned heavily upon the other, and had a strange gait; her free arm hung loosely upon a severely stooped shoulder.

As they approached, Solona got a better look at the pair. The strange dwarf had sandy blonde hair, shorn close to the scalp, and milky eyes. Tell-tale lines crept up the veins in her translucent skin. On death's doorstep— or worse, a ghoul. Sick enough to shiver the amulet, it seemed. Her companion, a woman with a dark complexion and upturned nose, had no obvious sign of the Taint upon her.

The healthy dwarf fixed the mage with an accusatory glare. "Your keeper is camped in my cave. He needs to leave."

Solona bristled at the implication that she needed a templar to mind her. "Are you Carta?" she drawled coldly.

The stranger was dry. "What gave it away, the tattoo?"

"The tattoo," Solona affirmed. She tipped her head. "And the black sun in your hideout."

"You're not from the village. They're not stupid enough to come south. Too many darkspawn." That was not a threat, but nor was it a mere observation. A warning, then.

"Is that what happened to your friend?"

If the blighted dwarf was listening, she gave no indication. Her pale eyes, once blue, stared unnervingly into the middle-distance.

"Her? No. Found her in the Deep Roads. Felt wrong, leaving a princess to die. Hoped we might find a Grey Warden. Then they all went and died."

"Princess?" Solona repeated, with a note of disbelief.

The Carta dwarf smiled, catlike. Her incisors were inset with ruby chips, matching her red leathers. "Don't know dwarven royalty when you see it, cloudhead? She's Lady Sereda Aeducan. The fratricide. You could ask her yourself but she don't talk much."

It seemed likely that the sharp eyed woman was lying. Fratricide or not, what would a Princess of Orzammar be doing in the hills outside Crestwood? Solona wracked her brain for what she knew of the Aeducans. It was very little. The old king was dead, and before him his oldest children, leaving only his youngest. Bodahn spoke of young Prince Bhelen in less than complimentary tones. Regardless, 'Sereda', or whoever she was really, was beyond the help of healers or Wardens. Her blackened jugular pulsed in her throat. Her hair had probably been shaved off by her friend when it began to fall out by the fistful. There was a smell about her, sickly sweet, like deep mushroom.

But it never hurt to have good manners. Solona gripped the hem of her surcoat and dipped into a curtsey. It was tricky on the sloped terrain. "Your Highness," she said gravely.

The ghoul nodded. Her companion, watching the interaction closely, seemed pleased by this reaction. "They call me Malika Cadash," she offered.

"Enchanter Amell."

"What's a Circle mage doing in Crestwood? Not running— you've got a leash."

"He's not a leash. He's… my ex."

"Ah. He do that?" Cadash gestured to Solona's face. "He hit you?"

Solona reflexively touched her nose, where blood was crusted around her nostrils. For a moment she considered how she must look— hair falling out of its chignon, bloodied face, muddy coat. She conjured up the image of a crazed blood mage, and it wore her own face. Somehow Cadash, even burdened, was not afraid of her. Did the Carta sell lyrium to apostates? That sounded right— where else would they get it? "No," she answered warily, "that was the darkspawn."

Cadash grinned that feral smile. "So you made the big boom! Heard that a mile off. Fuckers have been harassing us for days. They can smell Sereda, I think. But I told her, I said— I wouldn't let them have her. Promised I'd take her to Warden Duncan, but she got tired, walking in the Deep Roads. Hard to find out things since the darkspawn came up on the surface. Detrick won't let us in the village. Cocksucker's afraid of a little Blight-sickness." She rolled her eyes and made a rude gesture.

"Duncan's dead," Solona offered.

"I know. They says he betrayed the Fereldan king. Like they says this one murdered Prince Trian."

"Duncan didn't betray Maric," she said, out of loyalty to Alistair, who loved both men.

Cadash squinted. "Yeah. 'They says'," she repeated. "Be smarter, mage. Never know who might be working for the Regent. Dangerous times. 'Specially in Eremon lands."

Feeling rightfully scolded, Solona muttered, "Sorry."

"You a Grey Warden? I ask 'cause there's not many these days fighting the spawn. Lots of soldiers fighting soldiers."

"Yes," Solona declared with more confidence than she felt. "I'm a— I travel with them, sometimes."

"Your templar? Is he Prince Alistair? Only I heard he were a templar."

"No, he's—" Solona paused. Something wasn't right. "How do know about Alistair?"

Cadash chuckled, and with the softest _snick_ she replaced her dagger back into its hip holster. Solona had never seen her draw it. Now all the goosebumps on her neck erupted in belated warning. "No fretting. Had to know you was who I thought you was. Met the prince at a card game months ago. Got to know your friends. When you see Lady V, let her know I found the package too late. It will have to be Bhelen or Pyral for Orzammar."

Solona turned the word ' _package_ ' over in her head. It stuck there, hard to shake away. With a dry mouth, she clarified, "Leliana sent you?"

"She paid me. King of Orzammar isn't usually a problem for a surfacer. No deshyrs up here. But the Warden wants dwarves marching topside." Cadash sucked her tongue, as if she was amazed by the concept. "Meant to meet you in Crestwood, but that cocksucker wouldn't let me in. Fortunately, I'm a finder, see— I found you. Are you the healer?"

"No, that's Wynne. She'll be here tomorrow. I… I do not think she can help your friend. She looks pretty far gone."

"Probably. But a Warden healer, yeah? Got to be good for something." For the first time, Malika Cadash looked troubled. "Even if it's just a painless death. Princess deserves to return to the Stone. Never did nothing to warrant being one of them."

"How did you even find her?" Solona found herself asking as they walked slowly down the hill toward the Carta bolthole.

"Long story. Lady Aeducan had a lover, her First." She snorted. "Gorim Saelac knew too much. Got himself exiled to the surface; I spoke to him in Denerim. The dying king had a change of heart and begged Sereda's knight to find her. Saelac mangled his leg in the Deep Roads and had to give up the search. But he gave me a starting point. Lucky for me, the spawn had left the tunnels. Unlucky for her, she survived her wounds. She was just a little sick at first. Thought it was hunger. Then she started complaining of music."

Solona clasped her fingers over her abdomen, feeling the hard swell of flesh under her loose-fitting shirt. Another week or two and she would no longer be able to disguise her condition. And all it took, she thought, was one cut by a befouled sword, one drop of black blood, one tainted stranger. Her fear of it was a tangible thing— ice in the marrow of her bones. How could she dare to bring life to a dying world? What if the babe in her belly was born with milky eyes? How could she love it— how could she think of it?

Cullen was standing at the mouth of the cave, drawn by the sound of voices— a gray shadow of a man. He was watching her, she realized, with inscrutable eyes. She met them and he gave a polite nod before his gaze slid over her skin and beyond her. Solona swallowed back the pang in her heart and tried to convince herself it was the only way.


	5. Red (Alistair)

The pair of riders from the south approached the castle at midday, and were met in the courtyard by a cadre of uniformed servants who bustled them away into the guest tower. Caer Oswin was an isolated place, without a village of its own, nestled into a winding pine forest. Nature encroached on every side. Even in the courtyard, unsolicited pine seedlings burst from the ground, as if the trees themselves were collaborating to take the land back into their fold. Thedas had many enchanted woods, from the great Brecilian Forest of Ferelden to the Emerald Graves of Orlais, and that ticklish feeling upon the back of Alistair's neck suggested that they had entered just such a place.

Oswin was a charming place, with stately towers, and stone buttresses lining every major corridor. The usual pennants and heraldry had been replaced with banners of black linen. Those which flew in direct sun had faded to an orange-brown, the color of a black cat in dusty daylight.

The guest suites were small but nicely appointed— clean sheets on feather beds, private stone baths filled by water runes and warmed by heating runes, beeswax candles in brass candlesticks… Small details, but when taken all together it gave the impression that Loren had spent a small fortune on his visitors.

Alistair found himself trying to remember if Redcliffe Castle had been the same. But even thinking ten years back, to his memories before the undead befouled its halls, he saw obvious differences. Redcliffe was an ancient fortress first and foremost, and no amount of gilded wallpaper and Orlesian decor could keep out the draught in those solemn stones.

Even the air here tasted cleaner, he realized with a start. Death and Blight had become so familiar to him that in their absence the world felt amiss. Where were the black plumes of funeral fire? The hollow-eyed children torn from their homes?

Melancholy tugged at him. Oswin was almost a time capsule— Ferelden in the years of Cailan's reign.

Lady Landra had delighted in hosting salons. These rooms had once been filled with visiting gentlewomen, who roamed the flower gardens with books in hand. The gardens lay dormant now, in the cold air. But during that long summer of mourning, the native wild roses had thrived. Without the hand of their late mistress, they had choked out the cultivated plants from Orlais.

Oswin had once been a holiday villa— built by a grandson of the famous Bann Camenae Eremon as an inland retreat for his wife and children during the hurricane season. After the Occupation, Loren Eremon, born in obscurity and claimant to the lesser line only after his more illustrious relatives died in battle, reclaimed this family property from the Orlesians. Looking to legitimize himself as a lord, Loren set his sights on the eighteen year old war widow of Oscar Mac Eanraig. Lord Oscar had perished alongside his brother in Denerim's harbor, the very same sea battle which made their sister Eleanor famous.

With a lot of coaxing, Landra of the Storm Coast became Loren's wife. She was a flower of the sea. While some were certainly more beautiful, none in Ferelden could be said to be as educated, as witty, or as charming. Some of the spark went out of her, it was said, on the day Oscar died. And after burying five Eremon sons, no one could blame her for enjoying her cups in the evening.

Perhaps, because of these factors, Dairren was not quite the lad he ought to have been. He was the only child in the line— Alfstanna unwed and her brother a templar— and as such the presumptive heir to the Waking Sea. Soft-cheeked and coddled, Dairren Eremon had preferred books to swordplay, a detail which tomboyish Elissa Cousland could not overlook. Likewise, her inattention to her studies annoyed the lad. Still, they had been friends, bound together by an "unfortunate penchant for romanticism", as Lissa put it.

Dairren had been the latest in a long line of suitors thrown at Elissa's feet and subsequently ground under her heels. She might have found it comical, had the visit not ended in his murder. Grief was a funny thing— squire, she called him, and squire he was, after a fashion. The boy did not know how to take up a sword when his life depended upon it, and had bled out beside his mother.

The Eremons had reason enough to hate Rendon Howe. But was this enough to make an enemy of Loghain Mac Tir?

"King of the ashes," Alistair said to himself, looking down from the arrow-slit window of his room into the fading gardens below. A black flag billowed and snapped in the wind. The evergreens bent their knees.

"What was that?"

"Nothing." He cleared his throat. "This is ridiculous," he complained, examining the laces of his shirt in the looking glass. The tarnished silver crept behind the old mirror like a disease, hazing his reflection.

"Now what's the matter?" came the amused reply. Elissa sat primly on an overstuffed tuffet, with her full black skirts arranged artfully in a fan shape before her. The crisp white of her shirtwaist peeked out at the collar and the splits in her black sleeves. She looked like a magpie, with puffed up clothes covering her slight frame. In both hands she cradled a crystal glass, which held the remains of her brandy. On one spot, the rim was marked with the imprint of painted lips.

"Look!" He turned to face her. "One side is much shorter than the other!"

"Then obviously you've done it wrong." She huffed and rose to her feet, teetering with each step in her bone-white drakeskin heels. They gave her two inches in height, making her nearly as tall as Alistair in his stocking feet. The muffling charm upon her boots let her move soundlessly. "Look at you. You can assemble and tear down plate armor, but you can't fasten a shirt?"

"It's not as easy as it looks." He returned to the mirror. "I don't think it fits." The starch was so stiff that he could barely move his arms. "Feels wrong."

"You've never had something brand new, have you?"

"Well… no," he admitted lightly. A life full of hand-me-downs, cast-offs, and charity bins meant most of his clothes arrived to him a soft, dingy gray— characteristic of many washings. But he had never needed to stuff his boots with paper to make them last an extra season, or chew his belt to fight the pain of hunger, and that put him better off than most.

"Let me see." She stood behind him. Long, slender fingers skated up the black suede of his open vest, examining the eyelets and the tiny criss-crosses of leather thong to see if any were amiss. This close, Alistair could smell the myrrh in her hair, just a trace of spice in curls carefully arranged by Leliana. The scent evoked many memories. When her hands reached the top, she smiled to herself, and began to work her way back downward, loosening the laces.

As Elissa corrected his mistake, he watched her in the glass. Although her practiced hands could have brusquely sorted the problem, she took her time. Was it just his fancy to say she lingered, enjoying his proximity as much as he enjoyed hers?

Elissa hummed tunelessly as she tied up his shirt and cinched the gold buttons on his vest. Her varnished nails straightened his shoulders, then slid down his chest, smoothing out invisible wrinkles.

The man peering back at him through the haze was a stranger— aristocratic and sober. His shoulders were broader, his waist slimmer… Alistair had never owned clothes tailored just for him.

"Perfect," Lissa whispered reverently, and was embarrassed she had declared the word aloud. "I mean— it fits perfectly."

Alistair caught her hand before Elissa could retreat backwards, and pressed her wrist against his heart. She rested her temple against his cheekbone. Her eyes in the glass were red and dry and her cheeks were pale. Exhaustion had thinned her face to hollowness, but she'd painted her cracked lips with rouge the color of roses.

Together, they were a tableau of black, white, and gold. "You think I'm perfect?" he questioned, hoping to coax another smile out of her.

She wrinkled her nose. A grin appeared, along with an unexpected reply: "Of course you are, and you know it. You're ravishing, resourceful, and all those other things you'd probably hurt me for not saying." It was a throaty imitation, but the cadence was of his own voice.

"You remembered."

"Of course I remembered— I wrote it down. It was the first time I… nevermind."

"No, go on. Tell me."

"Well, I'd just gotten this, hadn't I?" Lis indicated to the scar on her face. A cloud of unhappiness passed over her, leaving just as quickly as it came. "I was feeling rotten, and I was half-drunk, and you came in and were nice to me."

"I meant it."

"I know you did. It's strange, but I think that was the first guileless compliment I ever received in my life."

He chafed against her earnest answer, twisting uncomfortably. "That cannot be true."

"They'll lie. All of them." A beat. "Even me. Especially me. Take nothing of what they say at face value, trust no one, never go anywhere alone. Take Zevran with you if must go out— he's posing as your manservant. Don't eat or drink anything before he gives the go-ahead."

"Don't take this the wrong way— because believe me, I am not keen to be poisoned again—"

"Maker, I'd hope not."

"What am I supposed to do?" He tapped his stomach. "No thank you, sorry, I'm on a diet."

"Just…" she sighed, "try to catch his eye and he'll give you a sign. Please do be subtle, if that's within your power."

"Maker forfend."

"Yes, I'm well aware of the irony of using Zevran for this."

"Caught that, did you? Nothing eludes you, Lissie."

She resisted rolling her eyes. "You needed a manservant."

"No I didn't."

"Yes, you do. That's how these people live."

"Your people."

She frowned at that. "Zevran volunteered. We have friends among the kitchen staff who will keep him apprised."

"Friends?" he repeated dubiously.

"Landra hired some of her servants from Highever Towne. All came with letters of personal recommendation from Mother. Leliana reached out to them for me."

"Your mother kept agents in Eremon's castle?"

"I don't know what you're implying, ser." Her eyes turned wide and innocent, like a porcelain doll. They were out of place above her smile.

"Don't be coy with me," Alistair murmured. He turned; one hand spanned her corseted waist, and the other cupped her cheek.

"Not on the mouth," she warned when he leaned in, "you'll spoil the rouge."

"Will I have another chance?"

Her eyelashes flickered as she considered. "No."

"Then damn the rouge." To his delight, Lissa met him a soft kiss. "My dear." Another gentle press. Then another, lingering longer.

"Damn you," she mumbled, as her hand snaked up behind his head. The kiss deepened; her mouth slanted against his, driven by the knowledge that they would be separated by their charade. Lissa tasted of spirits and sweetened wax; the black taffeta of her skirt rustled like bird's wings when he pulled her close. She sighed, resting herself in his embrace. He could feel the ribbing of her corset under his hand, bone upon bone. "You're incorrigible," she said with her eyes closed.

"Why did your mother keep agents here?" Alistair repeated. The thought was sticking out, like a loose thread he could not resist pulling.

"I've asked myself the same question. Protection?"

"From what?"

A knock— a rap in triplicate— came upon the door just that moment, and before they could react, Leliana lifted the latch and pushed inside. "Just me," Leliana announced by way of greeting, ducking through the doorway and pulling the door closed behind her. Alistair and Elissa sprang apart. Leliana lifted her eyes from her shoes; her mouth set into a displeased frown. "Really?"

Alistair flashed her a guilty smile with his red-stained mouth. "Oops."

Leliana wore a handsome gray wool dress, with a very stiff petticoat beneath it, and a white apron above. The quality and formality of her clothing implied her rank— as the personal maid of a wealthy lady. That she was pretty, young, and Orlesian only added to her charm.

It was amusing to to see an Orlesian in service to a Fereldan mistress, when for decades only the reverse had been possible. And Leliana so needed to be charming and amusing— disarming— so that no one uncovered her real intentions.

"The dinner bell chimes in ten minutes." She pulled out a ruffled handkerchief and a silver pot of makeup from the pockets of her apron. "Clean yourself up." With that, she pulled Elissa away to fix the damage.

"This is my room. You have no business bossing me around in here, Leli."

Leliana ignored him. "Did you at least remember to tell him about the food, Elissa? It is a miracle you ever get anything done around each other."

He covered up his face-splitting grin with a damp cloth. "She told me to watch Zevran."

"Hm. Not good enough. Here, take this," she said, drawing something from another pocket, and forcefully pressing it into his palm. It was an egg. "Eat."

"I don't suppose you smuggled in salt, too? No?" Not one to pass up such a prize, he cracked it against the wall and set to peeling it. Eggs were hard to come by. "I hope this isn't all I'm eating tonight."

"Zevran will be busy."

"What's happening?" Elissa pursed her lips as Leliana painted a sleek bow of red.

"A late arrival."

"How?"

"A solitary rider in plain clothes. A human man. Clean. Not especially well armed."

"Not our messenger?"

"No. He is late. There may be trouble on that front."

"You'll tell me everything later."

"Of course. Alistair?" said Leliana, whip-sharp.

"Yus?" he said around a mouthful of boiled egg.

"Bread cut at the table should be safe. Choose wheat, not rye. Don't ever drink from a glass prepared out of sight. Only accept what is poured from the master's pitcher. Avoid creams and sauces, they can conceal strange flavors."

"Lissie, I'm really supposed to live the rest of my life like this? Wondering if my cheese plans to do me in?" Alistair asked with a rising note of disbelief.

She flashed a grim smile. "No, no. Don't worry. You'll have royal tasters for that."

"Great." He blinked. "Hey, Leliana, did you bring anything else for me to eat?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene is now the cover art. You can view saa-pandaleon's work at the beginning of the first chapter. Thank you!


	6. Table (Alistair)

His first— rather dismayed— observation was that every dish had a cream sauce. Plates of chipped bone china were carried in by elven women, who swayed silently under the weight of the silver platters. A pair of whole roasted fish, glazed eyes staring in bulbous accusation, swam in a greasy nut sauce. Stewed root vegetables rested under the front-half of a boar with brown and crackly skin. A tureen of bread and eel soup the color of milk was laid before each place setting.There were a dozen others Alistair could not immediately put a name to. 

Far too much food for the number seated around the long banquet table. He thought of the ration lines in Redcliffe, of gruel and apples fed to the people while their nobles dined in comfort and peace.

Ten chairs, nine seated. All were dressed in degrees of black. At the head of the table was the master of Caer Oswin, a man who excelled only at appearing average— neither fat nor thin, clean shaven, with brown hair turning gray. When he opened his mouth, Loren Eremon spoke with an affected accent— through his nose, practically dripping with oily simper.

No one sat in the mistress’s place. A stripe of cloth had been draped over Landra’s chair. Serving reluctantly as hostess was a short-haired woman in tight-fitting velvet trousers. Alfstanna, Loren’s cousin, was in her mid-thirties, lanky, with a hard set to her mouth. Seated beside her was a black haired woman Alistair did not recognize; she was introduced as Clauda Du Paraquette of Val Royeaux. Clauda wore a dozen tiny gold rings on both of her hands. They glinted in the candlelight. Her fingers touched Alfstanna’s, lingering across the silver setting of a half dozen forks.

Across from the Orlesian woman was the Bann of the Storm Coast. Alistair knew Nell Mac Eanraig at once by her eyes. Familiar eyes, the green color of the summer sea, but hard eyes too, lacking any kind of warmth. He surreptitiously skimmed her face. Time had taken the vigor out of her cheeks, and had wrinkled her neck. She did not appear to take any particular pains toward vanity. She did not wear any paint on her eyes or mouth. Her curly hair had turned a rusted gray, and was pinned back into ropey braids in a common style. Nell reminded him most of a Tevinter statue, with the marble left for three ages in the rain. The essence of beauty was still there, but it had blurred through wear and time.

The next pair seated across from each other were Teagan Guerrin and Leonas Bryland. The latter was squeezed into a very outdated tunic which had been dyed for the occasion, as his own fine clothes were with his family in Denerim. The dye was not fast. The skin around his collar was stained a deep rusty brown.

Alistair himself was seated beside Teagan, and across from a man whose tremendous stature made Leonas look almost ordinary. They called him Arl Gallagher Wulff, the Giant of the West Hills, an unexpected addition to their party. Wulff had a pair of wild eyebrows, and a brand-new injury scabbing across his nose. He had lost a lot of weight in recent months, by the looseness of his clothes and sallow pinch of his cheeks. The arl could not outrun the rumor that he was actually dead. The sources were quite credible. Even Leliana had been surprised when he’d turned up, caked in filth, at Caer Oswin.

Elissa held a place of honor at the foot of the long table. They were spaced just far enough apart that Alistair could not touch her without drawing unwanted attention. Elissa looked at no one— conscious that every eye was upon her. With a sort of lazy bravado, she tried every dish, in every course, taking dainty bites.  _ ‘If there is poison,’ _ he forbade himself to think.  _ ‘They wouldn’t dare,’ _ he decided.

Alistair found himself with little appetite. He chewed through some dense, sandy bread, and chased it with red wine until he could feel the numbing flush creep into his veins. And he watched the servants come and go. It was a large, open hall, but the darkness of the space seemed to consume the light of the candelabras. He was unarmed, but there were knives on the table. He tested one on the crust of bread. Damn. Not terribly sharp. But a platter could be a shield, in a pinch. A plate could be a shattering projectile. Leliana was… somewhere. Zevran was… elsewhere, investigating the latecomer.

“I’ve heard they call you the Warden,” Gallagher harrumphed, pulling his whiskers out of a broth bowl.

“Is that you?” Nell asked, signaling a servant who brought her her pipe. “That’s not a real title of the Grey Wardens. Something Teagan’s people coined, I heard.”

“Not  _ my _ people,” Teagan protested gently.

Alfstanna smiled with pity. “Of course they are still your brother’s.”

“No. I mean, it was the Reachers, was it not? Someone from Lothering surely?”

“Though you’ve made quite the gift of Redcliffe to the Couslands. Is it a dowry?” said Nell.

Teagan flushed and opened his mouth, but Gallagher cut him off. “You’ve got it backwards, Nell. The Warden is protecting Redcliffe. Eamon’s body is a strategic resource. The rest of us could only dream of being so useful.”

“Maker’s breath!” Teagan exclaimed. “If I sent men under Rainesfere colors into the West Hills, would you be happy? Or would you take it as an act of war? Would not be the first time, your lordship, if you will pardon my saying.”

The Arl of West Hills bristled. “Offer them under  _ her _ colors.”

“Would that be Warden blue or Cousland blue?” Nell asked aside, through a cloud of smoke.

“I want more than a token,” Gallagher continued, “of one mage and one templar.”

“Did they help?” Elissa asked. Her eyes were inscrutable. The murmurs around the table fell silent.

The whiskered man paused. “Yes.”

“Did the Crown send you aid?”

“No.”

“There we are, then.” She idly examined her reflection in the back of a soup spoon, doing her best to look bored and above it all while she scanned the space behind her. Alistair could see the pulse thumping in her drawn throat.

“You have the templars?” asked Alfstanna.

Elissa’s eyes flicked away from Arl Gallagher, passing to the back of the hall. A mural dominated the wall behind the throne— Camenae in the garb of the old Order. Eremons could always be counted upon to be devout. “Some,” she answered, intentionally being vague about the small number. “Those who could be spared from the crisis on the lake. Ser Alistair, of course you know was once a templar, before the Maker called him elsewhere.”

“I heard you saved many templars when the Lake Calenhad Circle fell to demons,” Alfstanna said approvingly, allowing Alistair a warm look. “Fortunately we’ve had no such troubles in Jainen. The Denerim garrison reinforced us, naturally. Grand Cleric Elemena agreed that it was necessary. We cannot have the mages causing more trouble in these difficult days.”

Alistair gripped the stem of his glass.

Her cousin smiled grimly. “You know the apostates lurk among innocent refugees. Most of them blood mages. After what happened to Arl Eamon…” He shrugged. “Cannot take the risk. You would all do well to close your borders, as I have.”

Teagan shifted in his chair, surely thinking of all the young mage children they were smuggling through Alfstanna’s lands at that very moment. “Teyrn Loghain was responsible for Eamon’s illness.”

“Was he?” said Loren blandly.

Before Teagan could bluster out another red-faced reply, Elissa softly interjected. “I am sure you are well informed, my lord, that the teyrn placed spies in places which might challenge his consolidation of power. Two were discovered in Redcliffe, and another turned to blood magic in an otherwise good and noble circle.”

“Is that what you would call it?”

“The Grand Cleric saw no reason to use the Rite of Annulment upon Kinloch Hold. It was within her power. Indeed, the loyal mages and their templars banded together to end Loghain’s faction and restore the peace under their Knight-Commander.”

“But I heard…” Loren frowned, wadding up a serviette. Much of her statement contradicted his knowledge, but he was not prepared to call her out. “At your word, Your Grace.”

“The Grey Wardens have conscripted some of the mages. That is within  _ our _ power. A mage and a templar working in partnership holds the strength of ten ordinary men.”

“Preposterous,” Loren mumbled.

Nell blew smoke. It smelled floral, a medley of hemp seeds and clove. “Don’t be a poor sport, Loren.”

Alfstanna turned. “Ser Alistair, we must defer to your expertise. Is such an…” she searched for a word, “ _ arrangement _ between mages and templars even possible?”

Alistair gripped the edge of the table. “Yes. Yes, I think you’ll find every mage within the Wardens knows precisely what they’re fighting for. You will also find, your ladyship, that the Blight does not discriminate between mage or templar, between the wealthy and the poor.” Elissa gave him a sharp-edged smile. “It is not merely fire, or pestilence, or war. It is worse than anything your darkest nightmares could conjure.” Alistair shook his head. His voice rang out steady. “No matter what Loghain might believe, we’re not a second coming of the chevaliers. Redcliffe welcomed the Wardens. We want to help. Loghain denies the existence of the Blight. He criminalized the Wardens, thereby eliminating our best chance to fight the darkspawn.”

“Is there an archdemon?”

“Yes.”

“Then why hasn’t it been seen? That is what makes a true Blight.”

Leonas thumped the table. “Go to Lothering if you want your damn proof. Admire her smoldering corpse.”

Elissa cleared her throat. “A point well made, my lord Bryland. But to answer the bann, I should inform that the dragon has been spotted within the Deep Roads.”

“But surely it is a problem then for the dwarves,” said Clauda.

Leonas scowled. “Aye. I suppose I should wait for the dwarves to brave the surface? My people flee for their lives. I petitioned the Queen, but she did nothing. Just as her father turned his backs on us at Ostagar Fortress. But Teyrna Cousland did not wait on dwarves. She saved my lads and she did it with a handful of soldiers… Even sorted out the sylvans and the werewolves and that bloody Forest. Got the Dalish to stop shooting at us and start shooting at the darkspawn.”

“So you’re a folk hero now Lissie,” said Nell, opening her herb pouch. “Eleanor would be tickled.”

Elissa did not look at her dead mother’s twin. In fact, she seemed to be doing her best to pretend Nell was not there. “Leonas is being generous.”

“Do not be modest. Everyone knows, if there’s one person who can fix Ferelden, it’s the Warden. I would not question your motives any more than I would have Maric in the old days.”

The table fell silent at Leonas’s somber pronouncement. There was a… burning aura about Lissa Cousland. She leaned forward, on the edge of her seat, with eyes unnaturally bright. As if being called by that other name had summoned something to her side. She was no longer entirely herself, Alistair thought. Perhaps no one else could see it. Perhaps it was something that could only be  _ felt _ , resonating through the bond they shared. The presence set his teeth on edge.

Alfstanna smiled. The lines around her mouth deepened. “We wanted— no, needed— to see you for ourselves. There have been so many rumors about you…”

“Your fondness for Orlais is well known,” said Leonas, apologetically, for his own mother was Orlesian.

“And let us not forget the terrible business with Howe’s eldest son,” reminded Loren.

“What they are trying to say,” interjected Bann Nell dryly, through a ring of blue smoke, “is that they do not want to sit on their hands and let the Guerrins continue to be the only kingmakers in Ferelden. They want a piece of Eamon’s pie.”

“I see,” said Lissa. “Is that what you came for, auntie?”

“I’d rather see a Mac Eanraig on the throne than Loghain’s common-blooded brat. But both of us know it should have been Fergus. He was your better, girl.”

Elissa’s mouth turned rigid. “On that, we can agree.” She sat very straight in her chair. “But Fergus could not bring your daughter back.”

“The Grey Wardens can—”

“Grey Wardens cannot!” Elissa said vehemently. “No matter what you may have heard. We have no cure. Wynda’s death was a tragedy but it was more merciful than the alternative.” A manservant behind her, listening intently, fumbled with a dish. Regretting her tone already, she added in a gentler voice, “I am sorry.”

Leonas spoke up. “I was there. Your daughter went peacefully, beside the one she loved.”

Nell sighed. She looked to have aged ten more years in the span of a moment. “Idiot boy. You kept him safe, for her?”

“We did, auntie.”

“Send him to me. Spare a single soul from your tedious deathmarch.”

Elissa had no answer to that.

“It’s true then?” asked Clauda. Her accent was quite thick when she got upset. “The things they say about the sickness?”

Alistair cleared his throat. “Things are probably worse than they say.” All eyes in the room turned to him. This sent a sensation akin to ice water shooting down his spine. “The way I see it, unless we have Gwaren, we have enough men left for one more stand against the horde.”

“Thank you, Warden Alistair, for that succinct summary,” said Alfstanna, squeezing Clauda’s hand. “This is exactly why we convene here at Caer Oswin. To discuss a rightful heir to Cailan.”

“I’ve no interest,” Nell said. “The Storm Coast is and has always been my home. Eleanor would have jumped at the opportunity. That was her style. Never minded stepping over dead family on the way up.” She swallowed. “No comfort in thinking that’s what got her murdered, though.”

The manservant stepped forward to clear Alistair’s plate away. Alistair began to hand him the dish, but suddenly remembered he was not meant to acknowledge the movement of the servants, and froze awkwardly with the dish hovering halfway in the air. The other smiled. He looked vaguely… familiar was not the word. They had never met before. The servant had very large white teeth and a beak of a nose. He could not be more than… seventeen? Sixteen? He had not yet grown into his limbs.

“I’m sorry,” Alistair mumbled. The servant inclined his head in amused forgiveness and gathered the used plate away.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Elissa, “what is discussed here tonight is not to leave this room until we are decided.” Her brow creased as she watched the manservant make his round.

Loren was quick to assure them. “My waitstaff are completely trustworthy, for you see, none of them are literate.”

“Is that usual in Ferelden?” asked the Orlesian.

“I fancy myself a revolutionary,” Loren replied, a touch droll. “Better to run a tight ship, I always say.”

“Do you sail?”

“Oh, not at all, my dear.”

In this way was the table cleared, and the food was spirited back into the kitchens. Finally the nine conspirators were left completely alone in Eremon’s great hall. The candles drooped in their holders, swayed by the weight of melted wax.

“Well,” Teagan began to say, but found himself at a loss.

Nell laughed. “Let us just say it. We’re all now traitors to the throne.” 

Loren coughed nervously.

“Not if there is a rightful heir to Calenhad,” Leonas disagreed. “It’s like the old days, standing up to a usurper.”

“We were traitors then, too. Only we won, so we can couch it as just revolution to our children. Plenty lost that bet, if you’ll recall. Howe’s father. Cost him Highever and his life, and no matter what Byron and Rendon did, they could never get the tarnish off the family name. Half the good names in Ferelden will still remember what it means to go against Maric’s Champion and lose. They will be afraid.”

Alfstanna added, “The Queen is well-loved. But she is her father’s puppet. We’ll have to do better to take the Landsmeet.”

“We have a solution to that,” said Teagan. “One that my brother did everything in his power to prevent.”

“And it’s not me, auntie.” Lissa grinned. “You may keep your conscious clear.”

“Well, if Eamon hates it, how can I resist?” Nell said dryly. “You obviously came prepared with a name.”

“Another heir? Who? How?” Loren demanded. “Every known heir has been accounted for!”

_ ‘Oh Maker,’ _ Alistair thought,  _ ‘In dread I looked up once more and saw the darkness warp and crumble, for it was thin as samite, a fragile shroud over the Light which turned it to ash.’ _ Alistair stood. His chair clattered and moaned against the stone floor as it pushed back. For a half second he considered the distance to the door, but he found his resolve.

“I’ll do you one better than a name.” Elissa rose on her feet. He caught a glimpse of the knife concealed among her skirts.

Now or never. “Hello,” he said. His voice came out sheepish. “My name is Alistair Theirin. I’m Maric’s bastard.”


	7. Spy (Elissa)

“Impossible!” cried Loren.

“Outrageous!” roared Gallagher, pounding the table with his meaty fist.

“Fantastic!” laughed Nell. She leaned back in her chair, toying with the pipe in her hands. “Was this Eamon’s doing?” She answered herself immediately. “Of course it was. What better way to keep a hand on the throne after Rowan’s death than to hoard the spare for himself? Just like a Guerrin does.” She cocked her head. “No offense meant, Bann Teagan,” she tacked on in dry afterthought.

“None taken, Bann Nell,” Teagan replied, flashing his teeth. “It is a point on which my brother and I disagreed. In fact, it was a point on which Maric and Eamon differed.”

“Indeed?”

Teagan laid his palms flat. “Eamon felt a duty of care to Cailan. He promised Rowan— on her deathbed— that he would watch over her son. He carried that burden to the best of his ability.” It was hardly the most compelling of excuses.

The thin veneer of a smile slipped from Alistair’s face, but he gamely pasted it back in place. “They did not wish undue competition upon my brother.” A cutting remark, from another pair of lips, but from Alistair it sounded like kindness.

Nell snorted. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but… it would have done Cailan good.” A murmur of uneasy agreement followed her point. “Moira and Maric spent summers in my father’s castle on the Coast when I was a girl. I knew my cousin well enough. I would say you have his look. If you’re a fraud, Ser Alistair, they have done very well.” She gave a sharp, decisive nod. “Teagan, how in the Maker’s name did you hide him? Some backwater corner of Redcliffe?”

Gallagher furrowed his impressive brows. “I remember… something. A boy in Guerrin’s household. A ward. Everyone knew the child was sired by Arl Eamon. He died young, I thought, during the outbreak of Par Vollen flu.”

Alistair grimaced and held his tongue, undoubtedly thinking of his unceremonious dismissal from the castle by Isolde. Teagan sighed. “It’s no secret that King Maric grew to despise the politics of his position. Maric wanted Alistair brought up in comfort, far away from the machinations of the Court. My brother promised him he would look after the boy as if he were his own son.”

Nell observed, “A point on which Eamon failed tremendously, I must say. He shunted him off on the Order.”

“Becoming a templar is the Maker’s highest calling,” Alfstanna interrupted, shocked. “Irminric gave up his position to become one!”

Nell drew a lazy circle in the air with her pointer. “Irminric gave up his position because he was an incompetent bore and you were moderately capable. Do not confuse duty with desperation, my dear.”

Alfstanna’s mouth fell open with silent, frothing indignation. Before she could find her voice, Alistair laughed. “I admire your frank speech, Lady Nell. Tell me, does that make me— what— incompetent and a boor, too?”

Nell smiled. “I do not know— are you?”

Elissa coughed. The stitch in her side— from a stay overstepping its boundaries— was driving her to distraction. She was out of practice in wearing lady’s fashions, especially this season when everyone was expected to wear such ridiculous shapes, and if she had to sit for another hour with half lung capacity listening to her aunt mock the table, she was going to scream from the sheer irritation. A horde of darkspawn was preferable to a room of nobles. How had she ever missed this, even for a millisecond?

Three things happened in quick succession:

First there was a whisper. Nothing Elissa could pin down. Almost a mosquito buzzing near her ear. “Hi Lissie,” said a soft breath which tickled her ear.

Nerves as taut as a bowstring, Elissa brought the dagger in her hand straight up. The erstwhile invisible presence reeled back as she sheared away the buttons on his shirt. The familiar acrid smell of a decloaking rogue burned her nostrils. A shout of alarm! Alistair— a blur of dark clothes— threw himself head-first at the intruder.

Elissa’s breath froze in her throat and her ribs groaned against the stiff bone caging her sides. But there was no time to dwell on it; she pushed aside the shock to deal with later— always later— and turned in time to see the would-be king lay a square, bare-knuckled punch on a manservant. A youth, black haired and human, probably the same one who had served them all evening, but she had never really noticed him. She berated herself. Her corset had addled her head. The wine had made her too stupid to be borne. Too much to think of, too many pieces in motion, and suddenly she found herself not a chess-master of a great stratagem, but an overwrought female. She sank down into her chair. Damn this corset.

As the lords and ladies clamored to their feet around the table, with Gallagher Wulff hooting delighted encouragement at the brawling men, Zevran burst into the room, with Leliana trailing only a step behind. Both were sweaty and pink, wearing weapons strapped to their backs. “Lissa, we have got it!” Zevran announced.

Alistair answered him colorfully, letting loose a second punch. “You’re a bit late, don’t you think?” Alistair was older and stronger than his enemy, and without the element of surprise, the other was easily overtaken. His head bounced off the stone floor with a fleshy thud. This was not a Crow. Not even a proper assassin. Barely a rogue.  Still, Elissa knew him.

“Please! Enough!" she cried.

The boy smiled widely around bloodied teeth. “Did you know, Lissie, that they brought you here to make you queen?” he asked, letting pink spit ooze from the swollen corner of his mouth.

The last time she’d seen that face, it had belonged to a child, moon-round and sticky with sugar crumbs. Now he was an almost perverse imitation of his brother— the same features, but arranged wrongly. “Thomas,” she said. Her voice cracked around the name. “What…” A breath for composure. “What a pleasure it is to see you again. It’s been so long I hardly knew you.” Her stomach churned. “You’ve grown up.”

“Thomas Howe,” Alistair growled in recognition, lifting the scrawny youth up by the lapels. “You weren’t invited.”

“But I thought you would be impressed.” Thomas laughed. There was a touch of something nasty in his voice which reminded her strongly of his father, but at sixteen he had little of the bite. “I remembered— you liked a bit of showmanship.”

“Showmanship!” Teagan sputtered. “You— You're a spy! How much have you heard?” In his agitation, Teagan had tipped his wine goblet. A red trail bled across the dark wood of the table and washed over Leonas’s boots.

Elissa tried to sound glib and unbothered though she very much wanted to vomit. “Why don’t you take up a chair, Thomas, and you can listen more clearly.”

“Yes,” Nell insisted, “there’s room for the young Howe boy beside me.” In a quick motion, she swept the mourning ribbon off Landra’s chair. Loren, who had risen at table with righteous indignation, turned pale, and whatever he had been about to say died upon his lips.

“Well, it would be rude to turn down such a kind invitation.” He squirmed under Alistair’s rough grip. With a touch of the dramatic he tacked on, “If it would please your Highness, of course.”

Alistair growled in disgust, but let Loren’s guards help him back on his feet. A real servant rushed forward with a wet cloth for his bruised hands. "Did he touch you. Are you hurt?" Alistair murmured as he brushed close to her chair.

"Only my dignity," Lissa answered,  _sotto voce_. "He intended to surprise me."

"He's been here all evening."

"I should have..." she trailed off.

“You’re not a thing like King Cailan, are you? Good for you!” Thomas loped good-naturedly around the room, oblivious to or uncaring about the significance of that chair, or to the armed guard accompanying him. He slouched in his stolen livery. His eye was rapidly swelling. “Hello, uncle."

"Thomas," said Leonas.

“But do not let me further interrupt this auspicious moment, Lissie. I mean— Your Grace.” He smiled again. “My lady sister, Delilah sends her regrets, but father needs her at home.”

Elissa sank her teeth into her bottom lip. “Loren.” Her voice trembled with fury. None of the words which came to mind were fit for a lady.

“My lady?” the lord whimpered.

“Oh, don’t be too hard on him, Lissie. When he discovered the blunder, he did try and keep you away. Sent you halfway across the kingdom. I nearly believed you’d called the party off.”

Alfstanna frowned. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Delilah has been very naughty. Spying on her mistress the Queen and relaying messages back to an agent of the Grey Wardens, a traitorous organization which plans on returning Ferelden to Orlesian rule,” he recited in a sing-songy voice. “Or at least, that’s what Father says. He asked me to identify the agent and neutralize them if I had the opportunity. But I had no real leads until Lord Eremon invited my sister to his little party.”

“Lord Loren sent you back to Ostagar to keep you away from Howe’s men,” Leliana explained, resting the lower limb of her longbow on her boot-tip.

“But we also have proof he was… _involved_... in the murder of Ser Elric,” Zevran added. “He thought he could curry favor with Loghain.”

Loren sat down hard, the wind knocked from his metaphorical sails. “I never,” he protested softly.

Alfstanna hissed out, "Loren, you utter cock. What have you done?"

Lissa swallowed around the bile rising in her throat. "Nothing we did not expect. He was looking for the best offer." The fingernails on her left hand bit white half-moons into her palm. “I _had_ wondered. How is Lachlan, Thomas? Still in Fort Drakon?”

“Father is going to make him the Teyrn of Highever. Wouldn’t Mother have been pleased?” Thomas dabbed at his swollen mouth with the back of his sleeve. His eyes were bright, like he was satisfied with himself. “The thing of it is, Lissie, no one in Denerim knows you’re alive. The Warden is some abomination of Andraste reborn and a pride demon, pardon the blasphemy, but no one calls you by your real name. Of course, the Lady Cousland and Prince Alistair were meant to be killed in an ambush during that battle in the spring. I’ve heard Loghain arranged it himself.”

“Then you really are… you really are Maric’s son?” Alfstanna murmured, eyes flashing as she stepped gracefully around the word _bastard_.

“Who was your mother?” Nell asked, looking exceedingly amused with the evening’s excitements. “You were a templar and a Warden, so not someone of birth.” She turned thoughtful. “One of Rowan’s handmaidens, I’d wager.”

Thomas cut in. “Oh! Yes. Sorry. I came upon your messenger on the road.”

Lissa flinched. “The papers?”

“They are quite safe. I took the liberty of leaving them in your quarters.”

“What papers?” Alistair asked.

“The ones that make you a—”

“Resist making that pun, Thomas,” Elissa snapped, “for the sake of my nerves. Alistair, I occurred to me that King Maric had you formally dedicated to the Chantry, as is tradition. I asked Delilah to look into the matter.”

Thomas mouthed, “—royal bastard.” Alistair stifled a laugh.

“Honestly, Thomas!”

“Sorry, could not help myself. Ahem," Thomas vocalized, and made a show of clearing his throat. "In the year of the Maker 9:10, King Maric the Savior brought a child before Mother Ailis, priestess in service of the royal family, and named him as his son. The name recorded in her personal register— as recovered from the palace library, but not copied into Chantry records in the cathedral in Denerim— is Alistair Fionn Theirin.”

“Good enough for me,” declared Arl Gallagher, crossing his arms. “Good enough for Ferelden.”

"I'll second that," Bann Alfstanna, with a hard look at her shrinking cousin.

* * *

  

There came the particular matter of What To Do With Thomas Howe. He was a liability. He was a menace. He was a child.

For all of these reasons, Elissa all but dragged him out of the great hall by the ear. Her stiff skirts crackled and billowed in the open air, dragging behind her like a black sail as she walked at a clip too fast to be ladylike. Ladies floated. Lissa _stormed_. Though the lad’s coltish limbs gave him a foot on height over her, he struggled a little to keep pace. The perpetual smirk— the birthright of a noble son— slowly faded from his mouth. When at last they were truly alone, in a dusty corner of the brown garden, she unleashed her fury. “Just what were you thinking?”

“You blocked me easy,” Thomas answered, and was rewarded with a slap which rattled his teeth. There was too much of his father in him, too little of Nate. “Hey! It was a joke!”

“Grow up!” she snapped. “You nearly died tonight in front of your uncle. That would have been messy."

“The Lissie I knew would have laughed!”

“That was seven years ago. Before—”

“Before Nathaniel, and all that shit. I know.” He looked glum. “You were supposed to become my sister.”

Elissa exhaled. “I still am. As long as we have Lachlan, we’re family.”

“Some fucked up family.” He kicked a patch of weeds. “Delilah’s in trouble.”

“I know. I knew from the moment I saw you. What’s happened?”

Thomas quickly laid out the tale. Queen Anora and all her ladies-in-waiting were under close watch, kept confined to the Royal Palace or to the Kendells Estate, which now belonged to Rendon. Like a maelstrom, Rendon Howe was swallowing Denerim. Their post was intercepted and read. Their servants had been largely replaced by Howe staff. All under the guise of protecting them from the nefarious agents of the Grey Wardens.

“Loghain allows this?”

“He doesn’t care. He’s up to his neck in this civil war you’ve started.”

“That wasn’t me. That was Loghain— the regicide.”

Thomas shook his head, clearly not believing her. “They’ll have a new son of Maric to champion, and then what? What happens to the Howes when Denerim falls to your armies?”

“What do you want me to do, Thomas?”

He stood a little straighter. “I’ve come to negotiate terms. For Sister and myself.”

“I’m listening.”

“We’ll forswear Highever and Denerim. Leave us Amaranthine. Leave us what Queen Moira did for my Great-Uncle Byron, after my grandfather sided with Orlais.”

“It’s not mine to give. That power belongs to Alistair.”

He scoffed. “They will make you queen long before they’ll crown your bodyguard. Shield-bearer. Bed-warmer."

"Don't be crude."

"Whatever he is to you. You’ve got blood rights. Legitimate. But we need our home, too.”

She frowned at that. Then she closed her eyes. She thought of Amaranthine City, the blue diamond glittering on the turbulent sea. She thought of Nathaniel, though that pain was too much to dwell upon. And for a moment she felt merciful. “Two terms, Thomas. One, you swear fealty to Prince Alistair. Two, you get Lachlan Gilmore out of Fort Drakon alive. Then I will spare you, and your siblings, from what is coming to your father.”

“Nathaniel, too?” Thomas said, with surprise.

“Especially him,” Elissa agreed. "Let him know his exile is over. He can come home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I've been struggling with a chronic illness. Thanks for reading and for everyone who comments. Next chapter, we get away from here and on with the game!


	8. Pages (Elissa)

It took hours to hammer out the details of their grand plot. Some would call it Ferelden’s liberation. Others would call it high treason. Gold would be filtered through certain hands and used to arm and supply the Warden’s army. None of it could pass directly to the Grey Wardens. First Enchanter Irving and Knight-Commander Greagoir of Kinloch would be funded by Bann Teagan, and First Enchanter Jendrik of Jainen could call upon his patroness Bann Alfstanna should the moment arise. Leonas Bryland agreed to return to Keeper Lanaya and do his damndest to hold together the uneasy coalition between Cailan’s army and the Dalish. Nell Mac Eanraig was more than ready to mobilize her flotilla, and gleefully planned to lay siege upon Highever Towne and Amaranthine City. Half of the Fereldan fleet belonged to Nell alone, which really said less about her and more about the pitiful state of the kingdom’s navy. But that was a problem for another day.

Lord Loren Eremon begged for his life. When Elissa was inclined to be merciful, if only in appearance, he spilled everything he knew with a look of gratitude in his eyes. His story was roughly this:

Knight-Lieutenant Irminric Eremon, Alfstanna’s older brother and Loren’s cousin, was a mage hunter of the Templar Order. He had been given a particularly dangerous assignment-- to retrieve a blood mage called Jowan. One night near Redcliffe, travelling alone, Irminric inquired about Jowan to the wrong person. This man worked for Loghain. At first it appeared as if the Lieutenant had simply vanished. A dozen or so other knights in the region had met similar fates, to bandits and ill fortune. No one would have been the wiser.

Then, a strange letter came to Oswin. Enclosed in a package was a heavy family ring, engraved with the wheel of a ship. The accompanying message demanded an old man in Loren’s custody in trade for the owner of that ring. The old man was a king’s confidant, a fact which was only discovered as Ser Elric lay dying. Desperate for a second chance, Loren wrote again to Irminric’s kidnappers. The order returned that he should murder his fellow conspirators. Though he had been sorely frightened by this command, he was not a fool. He had learned two things. One, Rendon Howe held Irminric. Two, Rendon was running scared.

* * *

Daybreak had long come before Elissa Cousland shuffled back to the guest quarters of Caer Oswin, lead by a young elven woman wearing a pretty apron. The pale yellow cloth was embroidered with a pattern of wildflowers-- the orange and white petals of Andraste’s Grace, the gold and crimson trumpets of the Lilies of Sylaise, the blue bells of Crystal Grace. Peeking from the pocket of her apron was a starched white handkerchief, stiff as a sail, with a flash of blue stitched into the corner. It took Elissa several glances before she recognized the mark as a delicate teardrop. Her eyes rose, questioning.

“For you, my lady,” the servant answered, only when they were behind a closed door. Her voice was unexpectedly resolute. “We wear them for Highever’s grief. ”

Elissa clasped her hands together and nodded. “Were you friends with Iona?”

The woman let surprise register on her face. “I did not expect you to know her name, my lady. But yes, she was my cousin.”

“I knew her only a little, I’m afraid.”

Lissa thought of small hands, painted fingernails, eyes bluer than Crystal Grace. Iona was dead. She’d taken the first arrow through Lissa’s open bedchamber door. The archer had taken his time with a second shot, drawing an arrow from his quiver, preparing almost languidly to pin her to the floor. All the time in the world, and she a helpless doe. But Lissa would not die like that. With a wordless scream, she threw herself at him before he could raise his bow. Lissa, clad only in a flowing white shift, had strangled that man with her bare hands.

It took powerful hands to crush a larynx, but assassin’s hands knew to press upon the artery. When he staggered, she’d found the dagger at his belt and gutted him. She’d watched the life bleed from his wide eyes. Her first kill. Iona’s death was that first spark of fury which had twisted her into the person she was now. A stranger she hardly recognized. The Warden. By the time Duncan found her, her dress was stained so red it was nearly black.

Lissa staggered out of the memory. Iona’s cousin was waiting. She looked like she wanted something. “I am sorry for your loss,” Lissa said, feeling impotent and tired. “What is your name?”

“Roshia.” The elf bent down deep into the stone tub and tapped a series of runes in succession, to draw up the bath. Lissa watched with interest as hot water sprang from nothingness; such magic was still an unusual luxury, even for the nobility. A single rune crafted by the Tranquil might cost as much as a fine sword or a year of wages. Roshia opened a bottle of perfumed oil and added it to the water with a deft swirl. It smelled of violets. “If you do not mind me saying, Your Grace, in my experience your sort does not remember our names.”

“Nobles?”

“Shems,” the elf clarified, wrinkling her nose.

“Ah.”

“If you do not mind me saying,” Roshia repeated, significantly. “Or if you prefer, I can find your maid for you. That Orlesian.”

Elissa rubbed her cheek. “Stay. Of course you can speak freely.” Roshia slipped behind her to help her undress.

“Thank you, my lady. Only our Iona had a daughter.”

“I think I remember. Iona said she lived in an alienage? I’m afraid her name is lost to me.”

“Amethyne. She lives in the capital.”

“Yes, that was it,” Lissa agreed, breathing deeply as Roshia loosened her stays. The rush of blood under her skin made her body tingle. It was a painful sort of relief. “She wanted Amethyne to be raised among her own kind.”

Roshia sucked in breath. Her accent was northern, with just a trace of that lilting speech common in elven communities. But of course, Iona’s family had been in service to the Mac Eanraigs for generations. Landra had brought them into her second marriage; Loren had nothing. Roshia sounded quite like the kitchen staff at Castle Cousland, to Lissa’s ear. The longer she spoke, the broader her accent became.

“That was what she told people,” she said. “Truth be told, Iona could not afford to keep her. No husband to speak of, and no one with the time here to mind a babe underfoot. Iona was so proud of her elevated position, being a real lady’s maid to the Mistress and all. Learned to read, even joined in the salons. She thought some day Amethyne might be something, too. So she wrote to a child-keeper in Denerim and sent the babe away. Paid half her wages every month. Came to find out they sold the girl to some human woman.”

“Never!” Elissa gasped, clutching the front of her undone dress to her bosom. “What did she do?”

Roshia delicately shrugged. “Nothing, my lady. Couldn’t prove the child was hers. Just kept saying she would come back someday. But the girl must be ten years by now.”

“Maker’s breath. What can I do for you? I can write for you. Or…” She exhaled. “I’m sure Landra already tried everything I can think of.”

“Arl Kendells never answered the Mistress’s petition.”

“No, I rather imagine he did not. Urien never cared a whit about elves or the alienage, from what I remember.” She barely resisted the urge to babble out another apology. That would not be helpful. “Do you know who the human woman might be?”

“The Mistress discovered it. Lady Taraline. Sickness took her last year, but before we could collect her, the child bolted. Was even set to inherit a big house and the money with it. I’m not sure she understood. Raised by a shem-- begging yer pardon-- who knows what lies they filled her head with? She did not go back to the alienage. An elven girl on the streets is bound for trouble. Especially lately, things are bad in Denerim. I--” She hesitated. “I asked some friends to find her. But they need payment.” With this she produced a small painted box from her pocket and set it on the table. “It’s not something I can do. But you are a highborn human. I think you might go to Denerim. And you will give them this?”

“What sort of friends are these?”

“The helpful sort. They call themselves the Friends of Red Jenny.”

“Red Jenny?” Lissa repeated dubiously. What a strange name. “Who’s that?”

“No idea. Nobody knows.”

“Why me?”

“Because you want to help,” Roshia said, as though it was obvious. “You’re the Warden.”

It was an ordinary sort of box, painted white with gold leaf filigree on the lid in an Orlesian style. When it was new, it was probably expensive, but the paint had worn away with time and use. Big enough to hold snuff or coins or-- as she suspected-- papers of value. There was a scratched up lock on the front.

After Roshia left, and Elissa had her bath and breakfast in silence, she sat on the edge of the bed with the box in her lap. Unfurled on the bedspread beside her was her lockpicking kit. If she was going to be a courier, she wanted to know just what it was that she was carrying. She spent a few minutes playing with the lock, for she had grown rusty with Leliana on hand to handle these kinds of tasks, but was eventually rewarded with a soft click.

The lid came open at her touch. Inside were ten sovereigns, and a slip of paper with a list of names on it. Two columns, at least eighty or so people recorded. She puzzled it over, wondering who they might be. Traitors? Allies? Confederates of Roshia’s ‘friends’? Or something else altogether? What would the consequences of naming these people be? Where had the box come from? Resigned to pick Leliana’s brain, she began to replace the paper, when a particular block of names leapt out at her--

Daylen

Elspeth

Katarina

Maxwell

Evelyn

\--and she knew at once what this must be. She’d heard the Solona’s story on the night she’d shared it with Alistair. _‘Magi from noble families,’_ Lissa thought. _‘Shit.’_ That meant that the scrawled _I.R.T._ which signed the page must be First Enchanter Irving. Elissa closed the box with a furious snap, rose from the bed, and fetched writing supplies from her pack.

_S & C-- _

_How secret are m families kept? Interested parties inquire. Red Jenny?_

_E.E.C._

To the rookery, then. She flung open her trunk in search of her dressing gown, and discovered something she’d forgotten. It was a piece of vellum, jagged on one edge. It had been torn carefully from a book and then folded over twice. She unfurled it, humming to herself when she realized it was not a copy, as she had expected. Rather, this was the original page from Mother Ailis’s record book, in the dead priestess’s own hand.

Elissa read it. And read it again. It did not make sense. Her brain felt like it was full of swarming insects.

_The Records of the Palace Chapel Certify, in the Year of the Maker 9:10 Dragon, that a Son was Dedicated before Andraste’s Holy Fire and Named Alistair Fionn Theirin, of King Maric the Savior and Warden Fiona._

_Said Record is signed by Rev. Mother Ailis and witnessed by Warden Duncan._

This could not be right. And yet, there it was, in elegant scrawl, so tiny and precise her tired eyes strained to read it. The Guerrins had lied.

Almost by instinct, she returned to the table, selected a fresh sheet of paper, and dipped her quill in the ink. She began, and hesitated when she realized what she was doing. She could not come right out and ask about the woman who might be Alistair’s mother. Carefully, she composed what she hoped was a convincing lie.

_Warden-Commander Fontaine,_

_We have come across some old Warden records from the year King Maric allowed our order back into Ferelden. We think these may be useful in persuading the Queen to supersede the Regent’s standing order regarding Grey Wardens in this kingdom._

_We wondered if any of Warden-Commander Duncan’s company from those days might still be alive? Perhaps Warden Fiona? Any information you have is, as always, invaluable in our fight against the Blight._

_Acting Warden-Commander Cousland_

Before she could second guess herself, Lissa sealed up both missives, addressed them with a scratch of the nub, and shoved them in the pocket of her dressing gown. The blue wax was still warm against her thigh. She tried to convince herself to venture out into the castle, to find the tall, winding staircase which lead up to the rookery, but she found herself sitting back down on the soft edge of the straw mattress. She just needed to close her eyes. Ten minutes, she promised herself, and then she would get up.

Her eyes slipped closed. The pale light through the thin window turned her vision pink behind her eyelids. The air smelled sweetly of pine trees.

And then there was a voice. She felt the bed shift but could barely open her eyes. The lids were so heavy, and she was terribly thirsty. She blinked, and blinked again slower. It was dark, but for a solitary candle far off on the table. Beams of light shot out of a single point, in the shape of a golden compass rose. “You don’t have to wake up,” said the pleasant voice. Fingers brushed her fringe off of her forehead.

“Alistair,” she sighed in recognition, letting her eyes fall shut again. She was sweating. Her nightgown clung to her skin, and her dressing gown felt as heavy as a fur pelt.

“That’s me,” he confirmed, and he kissed her forehead. His lips felt cold against her skin.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“The day, and part of the night. The dawn will come ‘round again soon.”

Lissa groaned, and tried to sit up, but immediately she was struck by wooziness, and she sank hopelessly back into the thin pillow. “Why did no one wake me?”

“You were fevered. We thought you should rest while you have the chance. Things are... I’ve been here most of the time. Leliana made me duck out whenever the servants got near, but I don’t think we fooled anyone.”

She moved closer to him, so that he could wrap his arms around her. “I think I dreamed about the archdemon.”

“I know. I was lucky enough to experience it through you. Awake. That was brilliant,” he chuckled sarcastically. “There I was, minding my own business, reading a book, and then everything was suddenly all loud and nasty. I’m not sure that the bind and the Joining are compatible magicks.”

“Is it one sided?” she asked, frowning.

“No, they can feel us, too, if we get close enough.”

“Not the darkspawn. I mean-- the soulbind. We know I’m not as sensitive to it as you are.”

“That’s not true. You block me out.”

It was hardly fair, she thought, that it came so easily to him. Opening herself to him felt… well. It was dangerous. It was unnatural. What if she let her guard down too far and a demon slipped in? What if she became genuinely vulnerable to his feelings for her and she could not put the walls back up again? “Not on purpose. It just happens,” Lissa said stubbornly. That was only half-true.

Alistair went quiet. He brushed his fingers along the bony ridges of her spine, sending pleasurable frisson across the whole of her back.

“Do you want me to try?” she asked. He did not answer in words. Just a gentle touch.

She squeezed her eyes shut, and tried to reach out to him with only her mind. She tried to picture-- feeling ridiculous at her own lack of imagination-- ghostly fingers stretching out and touching his chest in the dark. At first, there was nothing. Then a cold pit of dread balled up in her stomach. He was frightened. Or was that her? She could hear the drums of two hearts beating separate tattoos-- _pleasepleasepleaseplease._ She pressed a little deeper and felt something like warm bath water closing over her head.

Lissa opened her eyes. The water was deep and green. Alistair floated in front of her. Little bubbles spilled from his mouth, drifting up into a bright patch above them. She clapped her hand to her mouth, thinking that she was going to drown, but he shook his head at her panic. Fractals of sunlight bounced off his face. “You’re safe,” she heard him say, clearly, from inside her own head. His lips did not move.

“How are you doing that?”

“I am trying not to think about it, actually. Could be like a flying dream. If you think too hard you will fall.”

“Are we in the Fade?”

He shrugged, and pointed down. She saw a strand of light. No. It was a rope? Or a cord. Golden, drifting between their bodies, connected at the center of their chests. There was no mark where it penetrated. No scar. No pain. No way of telling it was not just a trick of the light. She thought if she tried to touch it, her hand would pass straight through.

“Is that the soulbind?”

“Yes.”

“It’s sort of beautiful,” she admitted, admiring the glow. “Not at all like ghostly fingers.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Is this magic?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re not afraid?”

“I’m not alone,” he answered cryptically.

Below was dark and fathomless. He smiled at her. Maker, he really trusted her. Nobody…

She did not deserve…

Inky tendrils of black water swirled around her, pulling at her legs. “What is that? That _loathing_?” he asked, reaching out and pulling her closer. “I feel it from you all the time.”

“Don’t!” she cried, struggling to push him clear of the dark. It wasn’t rising. She was _sinking._ “I don’t want to drag you down!” She kicked her legs. Why was she so heavy? She looked down again and saw her dressing gown had transformed into white dress. Layers of tulle and satin floated like a froth of sea foam around her. It was her debutante gown. She gasped. A large bubble of air slipped free of her mouth.

“Lissie!” He was somewhere above her.

“Stop it! I don’t want this! Alistair!” Where had he gone? She could not see anything. Her ears popped under the tremendous pressure. A sound louder than thunder. Something wrenched her arm from above. And then she was heaving for breath, choking and sputtering, struggling under the weight of his arms. Bed.

“You’re safe. You’re safe. I pulled us out,” Alistair said frantically, half to reassure himself. “I’m sorry.”

Blood was leaking from her left ear. She croaked, “What the fuck was that?”

“Magic. I pushed too hard. I should have never-- I thought I could control it.”

“Since when?”

He stopped rocking her. “Since I was nine.”

“Nine,” she repeated. “Huh.”

He winced. “I…”

“Will you do that again?”

“No,” he hastily assured her. “Never again.”

“Then it’s fine. I don’t care.”

Alistair shivered miserably.

“No, I mean, I do care. Obviously.” She could just kick herself. “You’re a mage?”

“Yes and no. They think I’m something called a Seeker. Not a mage, not a templar, but something in between.”

“Oh. Forgive me. That’s a lot to take in.”

“I know. I know and that’s why I try to keep it under wraps. It’s too much, I think. Half the time I’m scared to death of myself so I would not really be surprised if you were, too. Scared, I mean.”

"Who else knows?"

"Cullen. Solona. Morrigan. They all found out at once. Adelaide, from when I was a kid. Possibly Arl Eamon. I can't be sure. Can't ask him. But it doesn't change anything. I'm still me. Right?" He did not sound convinced himself.

No. It was too much to think of. Magic. Damn the templars and the mages and the Maker for making them and the Chantry for making stupid laws about them. "No one else can know, Alistair," she said gravely. "I mean it. You were right not to tell people. It would ruin everything we're trying to build. And I… I do not know. I'm not angry, but I need a little time to think. Please allow me that."

He retreated. She saw the fragile, hopeful light in his eyes snuff out. "Of course," he said without emotion. "Take all the time you need."

They lingered like that in the darkness for a while. The candle burned down, and then burned out. She rested lightly in his tentative embrace, and listened to the erratic sound of his breathing. Every time she moved, he flinched. His breath stuttered in his chest. Still waiting for her to make up her mind. It had taken him tremendous strength to tell her. She could see why he thought she would reject him. She could not be sure she would not. It was a lot to take in.

Maybe, she thought, it would be better to break it off with him now, rather than later.  _'_ _Do it swift,'_  she told herself.  _'A sharp blade hurts less than a dull one.'_

Maybe they were not so different after all. Two screwed up souls linked in the dying light.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, when it became obvious that neither would sleep again.

"Er. I have a middle name. Fionn. I never heard it before yesterday. It… It never ever occurred to me that Maric might have named me. My mother died in the birthing bed." She heard him fumble for his mother's amulet. He never took it off. "I thought Uncle Eamon… or someone… I was never supposed to... " His breath hitched. "They really just might make me king."

All this time, she had been so determined to drag him kicking and screaming into his destiny. How was she any better than them? "I discovered something today. Or yesterday, now? Either way."

"Uh oh. That's your 'I've got a nasty surprise' voice." He grinned weakly.

"They lied to you about your mother."

"What?"

"Her name was not Rhona. It was  _Fiona._ "

He swallowed. "So I misremembered. The names sound alike. Rhona. Fiona. It's not like we ever talked about her. I asked a few times. It was... discouraged."

"It's more than just that. You might not have even been born in Redcliffe."

"Of course I was. What are you talking about?"

"You were dedicated in Denerim, in the palace."

"All that proves is they took me there when I was a baby." He sounded increasingly defensive. "Maybe Maric wanted to see me. Why wouldn't he? He went to the trouble of naming me as his son. All he ever did for me, but still. Isn't it the thought that counts?"

"Alistair..."

"Why are you doing this? Do you want to hurt me? Because it's working, Elissa."

"She was a Grey Warden!"

"No she wasn't! She was some poor girl who was dazzled into bed with a king and died for the trouble of it. I know she was. I have a sister who lost her, too, and she never answers my letters because I killed her mum!" He let out a hysterical laugh. "Leave it be. Leave my poor dead mum out of this."

She wished she had never brought it up. But it was hard to drop it now. "She was a Warden called Fiona. We both know Maric travelled with the Wardens the year before you were born. It fits. Duncan knew her. He had to've. He was the witness at your dedication."

"Duncan would have told me. Tell me why he wouldn't have told me?"

"I don't know." Lissa pressed a kiss to one of his balled up fists. "I wish I knew."


	9. Fruit (Solona)

**AUTUMN**

Solona and Malika walked slowly behind the druffalo-pulled cart, staring at their boots as they picked their way over the refuse-flooded streets of Crestwood. The latter kept her hood pulled up over her head, covering the prominent Carta tattoo on her cheekbone. The air stank of garbage and rot; it was places like these which reminded Solona why Elissa Cousland always carried a nosegay. Ferelden was a foul place. Although she had spent her adult years in one of its Circles, Solona Amell still felt like a visitor in a foreign land. Disgusted, confused. Why did they throw their waste into the streets? In the Free Marches there were sewers beneath the cities to carry it away. Women did not have to go about their lives with their hems— not to mention their children— caked in excrement.

The houses in Crestwood were elevated like in Redcliffe, but on stone foundations rather than on wooden piers. The roads, if you could call them that, snaked around each stone island, with tall braziers dotted about for evening illumination. The largest of these was the home of the village mayor, Gregory Dedrick, but all these constructions seemed small in the shadow of the great dam.

The mage pressed a handkerchief against her nose and lips. A wave of nausea passed over her in a noxious tide. When she felt more herself again, Solona pointed upward to the dam. “Why build it?” she asked, a little in awe of the scale of such a project.

“Dwarves with plans,” Malika Cadash scoffed. “There are Deep Roads right below the surface all over these lands. Half the caves in Crestwood poke down into the dark. The Carta makes use of them where we can. That bolthole you found was one in a dozen. Some king tried to connect Thaig Aeducan with the lost kingdom of Gundaar. It wasn’t lost back then, if you know what I mean. Anyway, this king tried to build a great hall right under this here lake and flooded the shit out of his glorious pet project. So what does a king do?”

“Build a dam to hold back the waters?”

“Exactly! Crazy fucker. Those builders would have been clutching onto their boots, afraid they were going to fall up into the sky. But a king said so.”

“And the village? Is it dwarven, too?”

“Nah. Lot of ores were exposed when the water were redirected. _The Rusted Horn_ used to be miners’ barracks before it was an inn. And there were farmers, to feed the miners. But no village— at least in name— until Caer Bronach was built.”

“You know quite a bit.”

“I’m not a local, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m a Marcher like yourself.” She inclined her head. “But I ask around. People were more chatty before the caer was abandoned.”

“The soldiers are gone?”

“The Bann of the Waking Sea got spooked by the business on Lake Calenhad. Pulled her soldiers, templars, knights, what-have-you, back to Jainen. People with common sense went with them. Only the stubborn ones are left in Crestwood. Maybe they’ll get lucky and Howe will pass them by.”

“You think Howe will come here?”

“No doubt in my mind that his army are on the way.” The dwarf sniffed, and lowered her voice so that Solona had to strain to hear it. “Everyone knows by now that Bann Alfstanna and her cousin hosted the Warden and the Rebel Prince.”

Solona thought quickly to the terse missive she had received from Caer Oswin.

_How secret are m families kept? Interested parties inquire. Red Jenny?_

Solona had no answer to Elissa’s strange questions. But they were bound for Jainen, too. If the gossip was true and the bann had a fresh fear of mages, great enough to pull her men from every garrison, how much danger were they heading for? Alistair had been so certain that Alfstanna Eremon could get the mage children to Kirkwall. But what if this was no longer the case?

Was Elissa asking if they had maintained their cover? Or did Alfstanna need their names to let them pass into her city? Who were the interested parties she referenced? And who in the Maker’s name was Red Jenny?

The cart came to a halt outside the ramshackle flour mill. The druffalo driver shouted a greeting and the door opened. Out came Cullen, flanked by two other young men— Patrick, the miller’s son, and Robert the wheelwright. All three were strapping in their work clothes, and Solona found herself staring as they descended the staircase and set to retrieving the wagonload of Redcliffe grain.

Cullen pulled a heavy sack, which was easily half her size, from the top of the stack. With a heave he slung it over his left shoulder, muscles rippling. Solona softly hissed in a breath. He made it look far easier than it should have been. She waited for him to say something to her.  He only offered a bland, disinterested gaze in her direction.

The words came bubbling out unbidden. “I came to help.”

“No.” There was a flicker in the muscle in his cheek.

She ground her heel into the cobblestone. “If you are afraid it will taint the grain—”

“No.” It was said just as calmly. As hard as he slipped his mask back on, she was sure there was something there. Her stomach rose in her chest. Anger was better than disinterest. She could never bear to be invisible to him.

Cullen turned away from her, and began to climb back up the stairs to the mill. A sweaty feeling prickled on her palms, and queasiness churned in her throat that had nothing to do with the stink of Crestwood. Why was she doing this? She had a very present need to keep him at arm‘s length. But she desired…

Impulsively she lifted her fist, and a sack of grain levitated out of the cart, startling the miller’s son. To the void with them. She could be like Morrigan! But despite all her bluster, force magic was new to her. She had never used it but on accident, and that was just the once. The control it took to send the sack flying up the staircase without a staff in her hands felt like straining an already injured muscle. It knocked the wind right out of her. Solona grimaced as the sack splattered into the ground just beyond the threshold of the mill. It burst down the seam like an overripe gourd, sending raw kernels spilling across the floor.

Cullen whipped around at the top of the stairs. “That is what you call _helping_?” he said in disbelief.

Solona gripped the edge of the cart, steadying her trembling hands. “Yes.”

His eyes were as big as two saucers. “Did you mean to aim it at my head?”

Solona wanted to laugh. “Yes,” she choked out. “I missed."

* * *

_E,_

_I had never heard of a ‘Red Jenny.’ They are neither a mage fraternity nor templar brotherhood. Alistair could have told you that. But I believe I have found you an answer nevertheless. Have you been poking around in closets? Under beds? Red Jenny is a boogeyman— a entity which exists to scare misbehaving nobles. Spoils the wine, or ruins your party. A trickster demon and a thief._

_At least, that is what they tell me. Could not say what that might have to do with mages, but I find the notion unsettling._

_We met a Carta dwarf who calls herself Cadash. The name stirred up a most unsettling response from Wynne’s golem friend. Normally it is rather broody, is it not? But upon hearing ‘Cadash', Shale began to bellow and to stomp about, which frightened the children. Malika Cadash then proceeded to laugh, evidently finding the exchange delightful. I wondered aloud if all the golems are so erratic. She could not tell me. Shale is her first encounter with such a construct._

_I’m digressing. The families are kept very secret, but they are scrutinized by their local templars until all the children reach the age of maturity. Magic runs in the blood. Sometimes it seems to pop up spontaneously, but it is presumed there was an apostate secreted away in the family tree. The Tevinter have studied that topic ad nauseum, but they would not let us read that sort of literature._

_S._

* * *

_S—_

_Message from Cadash?_

_E.E.C._

* * *

_E,_

_“Bhelen or Pyral for Orzammar.”_

_The princess was ‘returned to the stone’, as they say, this morning._

_S._

* * *

After a time, the soft childish patters of footfalls upon the dirt road became not unlike the sound of slippered feet on stone floors. If Solona closed her eyes when the wind grew still, she could swear that the tower walls had sprung up around her once more. That the low, moss-covered walls of rough rock, or the tall hedges which divided the farmers’ brown and trampled fields from the king’s highway could metamorphose into Kinloch at any moment.

She hardly trusted her freedom. It was a bitter taste upon her tongue.

Solona studied the women who shepherded the mage children northward. Some had an air of false confidence. Those were the hedge mages. They had learned to act in a certain manner, in their earliest days, to escape detection by the Chantry. Others kept their cloaks drawn close around their bodies, and never slept more than one night in the same place. They were the runaways. And the last category were the mothers. They had pinched, sallow cheeks, hungry bellies, frightened mouths. Always with a pocket full of bread and wild greens, though they rarely ate. They took one look at Solona’s burgeoning belly and embraced her as one of their own, which left her feeling left-footed and embarrassed. How was she meant to behave around these women?

She could only read pity in their gentle smiles. An ordinary woman who had lived an ordinary sort of life might have been comforted. But such was not to be a mage’s life.

If she strained, she could remember a brief flash of her own mother. Something of her perfume, left behind on an abandoned pillow— oranges and smoke. Black hairs left in a hairbrush. Solona knew what Revka looked like from the painting looming in the hall in their Kirkwall estate. Fair skin, almond shaped eyes, a heavy gown of blue taffeta. A faint look of disapproval beneath winged eyebrows. Katarina had taken her handsome looks. Solona took after her Papa. She tried to imagine Revka in the flesh, wearing the pinched look of one of these women. But when she pressed herself she could remember only the feel of brown paper under her fingertips, on the day the servants packed Mama’s portrait away.

The children were always hungry. They had learned that Malika still had coin in her purse and they swarmed about her at mealtimes, trading crowns of fern fronds and pine cones for pennies. Two coppers bought a sausage with not too much green on it; three bought a nicer one and a crust of bread. Crestwood’s tavern reeked of damp. The hand painted sign hanging on the wall boasted of the days when food was cheap and plentiful— cold ale, mutton pie, Antivan brandy, wyvern steak, chicken.

Only a few farmers had come to sell their harvest this year. Cullen muttered something dark about ergot poisoning and only let the children eat bread baked from their own supply. The village ovens roared with hot coals once more, and in the midweek the women baked round, squat loaves of dark bread with only a little burn on the bottom of the crust. Solona learned to knead dough, and when her fingers were swollen stiff with the effort, she practiced doing it with magic.

The mothers of mages were strangely grateful to see her use magic in the mundane. When Wynne and Shale left to rejoin the Warden, Solona and Evelina took over teaching the children simple spells— warming, drying, purifying water. None of the young ones had any formal training. That is to say, Circle training, for she had come to understand that the apostates knew more practical magic than she did. She knew nothing of poisonous plants, precious little of brewing potions, nothing that could help her soothe a rabid animal or halt a giant spider. She knew how to destroy. She knew how to kill. Fire was as natural as drawing breath. She knew clearly, for the first time in her life, that she was nothing but the Chantry’s weapon. No wonder the templars were afraid.

After the incident with the grain, Solona and Cullen were on wobbly footing. Nearly friends, she thought. The ache in her midsection when he was near her had lessened to a soft twinge. One morning, six weeks into their stay in Crestwood, Cullen came back to the tavern with a sharp crease in the corners of his mouth and a stormcloud in his eyes.

“We need to leave,” he announced, swinging one leg over to straddle the bench she sat upon. “What’s that you’re eating?”

Solona gave a reluctant half-glance downward into the bowl of lumpy gray… stuff. “Sausage gravy, I think. Salty. Better not to look at it.”

“Better not to eat it.”

“I never pass up a hot breakfast.”

“You never _keep down_ a hot breakfast. What happened to the wild peaches I found you?”

“They were tart. I gave them away to the children.”

“I climbed to the top of a tree for that fruit.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“I fell on my— ahem— for you.”

“You really shouldn’t have. Cullen, is it Mayor Dedrick?”

“Yes.”

“Damn.” She placed her head in her hands. “All of us?”

“Yes. He threatened to turn you in to the Regent’s men or to the Chantry, whoever would come first.”

“But we paid! That grain should have bought us safe harbor until the spring.”

“I argued that very point. Best as I can tell, he’s changed his mind.”

She snapped to her feet, nostrils flaring: “I could kill him!” Her back twinged violently, and she hissed, cupping her hips with her hands.

Cullen’s hand slipped to the small of her back. His eyes were hooded. “If I thought it would help, I would have done it myself.”

She pushed him away, but reluctantly. “The children cannot walk in the deep snow!”

“All the more reason to strike for the coast before it gets much colder. We may have to borrow some shoes from the mayor.”

“Promise me we’ll never return them?”

The corner of his mouth turned up into a feral smile. “I promise.” His hand settled on her shoulder. This time she leaned into the touch. "I cannot see why we would ever give a damn about Crestwood ever again."

* * *

_E,_

_Fuck Crestwood._

_S._

 


	10. Nothing (Solona)

There was nothing that could have been done for the blighted princess. ' _Nothing,'_  Solona Amell thought, wrapping that nihilistic promise around herself like a cloak. ' _It was out of our hands from the start.'_  And yet, the icy sense of failure leached into her bones. Maker, she could not abide feeling helpless!

Solona carried with her a placard, hammered out of a thin sheet of bronze—  _Lady Sereda Aeducan, Princess of Orzammar_. She could read the words with her fingertips through the cloth wrapping. The smith in Crestwood had been heavy handed with his lettering. Common seemed crude when compared to the precise runes which usually decorated dwarven monuments, but she supposed it was better than most people got these days.

Malika Cadash had mirthlessly suggested a second line—  _Fratricide. Died in the Fifth Blight_. It would complete the story of the late princess, at least as would be recorded in the Memories. Especially, it stood to reason, if Sereda's brother Bhelen won his claim on the throne of the lower realm. Despite the intrinsic distrust surfacers carried for the ways of Orzammar, Cadash paid for the burial out of her own purse. A half dozen men fought amongst themselves for the chance at a week's wages. Hekkat Hall, the once-forgotten dwarven outpost beneath Crestwood's mines, saw one more Aeducan returned to its stone.

The entrance to the mines was an old cave, perched in the outskirts of the village. The mouth yawned large and black; it glistened wetly with flecks of ore. Refined stormheart was a pale aqua, the color of a frothy sea, living up to its name. Try as she might, Solona could not compel her feet to cross the threshold of the cave. In the torchlight she could see far enough inside to discern what appeared to be a hungry maw— the dark spiral of wooden platforms descended into the void. Over and over, she twisted it around in her mind.

"Will you go down?" Cullen asked suddenly, as if he had blinked out of the damp air. Her hand leapt to her heart in shock. "Oh! I thought you would hear me."

She offered him an embarrassed laugh, and looked down at her boots, where the toes dug holes into the wet gravel. "I was thinking too loudly."

"I see. My apologies for disturbing you."

"No, Cullen, I should be grateful to you. I've been rooted here trying to decide what to do. So much so, I think that petrification is setting in." She gave her foot an experimental shake, wincing when it twinged. The pain spread up her leg from her ankle and settled in the nerves behind her hips. She resisted pressing a hand against her lower back, but worried that soon the weight of her pregnancy would leave her hobbled. "Do you need something?"

"The smith told me you collected Lady Aeducan's burial marker. I thought I might accompany you down to her tomb, if that is where you are going."

"Actually, I had hoped to run into Cadash along the way," Solona admitted. "I don't care much for dark places these days."

"Ah." He gave her an understanding nod, and did not press further.

Thoughtfully, she unwrapped the bundle in her hands. The linen cloth came away and fluttered to the ground. The bronze flashed in the light. The expense of the material alone was enormous. She wondered how the Carta would feel knowing their cache had paid to memorialize a banished noble. Perhaps they would be pleased at the irony. "Have you been inside?"

He nodded. "Once."

The back of her neck felt prickly and flushed in the chill air. This was the longest conversation Solona had managed with Cullen in days. "Is it true that there aren't any darkspawn in the Deep Roads right now? Have they really all come to the surface?" The Grey Warden amulet resting over her breastbone was cool and still, but she still felt jittery. Something was off with the Fade here, or else her senses deceived her. When she closed her eyes, she swore she could see flashes of green.

"There are collapses on either end of the hall, and debris seals it from the road. They saw nothing down there but a large colony of nugs, fortunately, or else the village would have been overrun in the spring."

"As it is, they crawl about the wooded hills. We've killed enough darkspawn to be honorary Grey Wardens. It's a small relief to know one source is sealed." She swallowed. "How did it turn out?"

"Well, they are just miners, not master masons." He gestured out a rectangular shape, that of a grave. The leather on his gloves was dull in the cloudy light, but she knew that in full sun they could gleam a burnished red. "They cut out a place where there were some other tombs. Other Aeducans, Cadash said, from long ago. It is rather marvellous, actually. Quarried stone was carted in from the northern coast. Volcanic aurum inlays the floor tiles in patterns of gold and black, and there are stained glass windows in the walls."

"Stained glass?" she repeated. "Whatever for?"

"I suppose for the same reasons we use it. Beauty with function."

"What does a templar know of beauty?" she challenged. Her nose crinkled when she grinned.

Cullen laughed at her tease. "Too much, actually. If you stand eight hours a day in full plate, everything begins to look beautiful." He ticked off with his fingers, "A chair. A cold drink. A smile…" Their eyes met, and it was natural, like it had once been. Cullen was the most attractive man she had ever met. That he was oblivious to his own charms only enhanced the effect. His blond curls were unfailingly unkempt, and he rarely managed to remember his shaving kit. People noticed him when they travelled. People had noticed him in the Circle.

She remembered how his stubble felt on her neck, and how his breath flashed hot against the shell of her ear, and how she lived on nothing but fond memories of his touch for stretches of days. It was hard enough to find time when they both might reasonably be alone, much less alone together.

Now she had the time but she could not—

"Tell me more about the Deep Roads," she said, tearing her gaze away. She stared down at her ragged fingernails. These weren't the soft, polished hands of a mage. Whose hands were these?

Cullen obliged, coloring slightly at her tactful rejection. "There were once glowing runes behind the glass, but they have all gone out. It must have looked like— like sunlight in a Chantry." He stepped back to lean against one of the wooden pillars propping the entrance to the cave system, and rubbed his elbow. "The Deep Roads are not what I once pictured. I thought there would be wilderness beyond Orzammar." He turned his hands upward and flat, weighing  _Orzammar_  in one palm and  _wilderness_  in the other. "Like mineshafts or perhaps burrows? But it is nothing like that. It feels like the nave of a cathedral stretched out a thousand miles."

"Stolen by darkspawn."

He hummed in agreement.

"Isn't it bizarre?"

"What do you mean?"

"We go to all this trouble because Sereda was a princess. As if the death of one princess was a particular tragedy, or as if... being a princess should have spared her."

"What are you getting at, Sola?"

"I don't know. A ghoul is not so different from an abomination, I think."

The old pillar wobbled when Cullen pushed against it. His sword jounced against his thigh, making a jingling noise she found unexpectedly comforting. "What does that matter now?"

She lifted her chin stubbornly in the air. "What matters is you agree."

"On the surface, I can see the similarities," Cullen rubbed a hand over his face.

"Either both deserve the rites of burial, or neither do."

"The Chantry says—" He stopped. "You must know— it is easier for me to fall back on the Chantry line, to think nothing but words drilled into my head. And when it gets too much, I am guilty of shutting it all out and falling back on the rote familiar. That is how I... cope. I am not a philosopher, Sola, just a soldier." He grimaced. "If that's not what you want, I can understand. But let it be a peaceful parting. Do not  _bully_  me to pieces." He stared glassily at her face, but with unseeing eyes. His pupils were a swallowing black in his amber eyes.

Gently, Solona laid her hand on Cullen's arm. "Walk with me?" she asked. "Knight-Lieutenant?"

Cullen nodded, quickly swiping at his eyes. She pretended for both their sakes not to notice. "Enchanter Amell." He slotted her hand into the crook of his arm. Only then did she notice how cold she was becoming, and how welcome his warmth.

"From now on, I think I'd prefer to be Enchanter Trevelyan."

"Of course." He seemed faintly bemused. "If you like, Enchanter Trevelyan."

"You knew?" Her mouth became a thin line. "All this time?"

"All the officers were briefed on your relation to the First Enchanter. 'There are no secrets in the Circle,' Knight-Commander Greagoir always said. Someone might have tried to leverage that information against Irving, if we did not know to watch for it."

"Maker's breath. First the Circle takes my name, then it acts as though it has done me some  _great favor_."

Cullen's face fell. "I never said I agreed with any of it."

"But you were complicit! You could have told me at any time in the year we were together." Angrily, she picked up the pace of her step, practically dragging him along behind her as she gripped tightly to his arm.

"I was waiting for you to tell me! You told the others easily enough. Alistair knew practically from the start."

Solona did not care for what he was implying. "Because he's easy to talk to."

"I'm not?"

"It's impossible to talk to you!" She squeezed her eyes shut and immediately tripped on a protruding root. Cullen's right arm shot out to save her from the impending fall. He looked at her silently, wounded by her brash remark. "But that's neither here nor there," Solona sighed, trying to take it back without conceding her point. "As a Knight-Lieutenant of the Templar Order and an Enchanter of the Circle of Magi, we should have been on equal footing. But we never were."

His hand slid down her shoulder and lingered on her elbow. "So… the problem between us was in the balance of power? In the infrastructure of the Circle."

"Yes." She felt shockingly naked before his piercing gaze, but she was not afraid. She bit her lip. "It will always be so."

"What if it did not have to be?" he asked, again with that curiously disquieting stare.

"Only if we left the Circle." It dawned on her slowly, what his strange expression meant. "Maker, you mean to  _leave the Circle._  You cannot be serious." Her head whipped around to see if anyone would overhear them. But they were completely alone, standing amidst the naked gray trees in the wooded hills.

"Why not?" he replied, so soft she had to read his lips to catch it. "We have a friend in the Carta now. The biggest impediment as I see it is finding a steady supply of lyrium."

Solona made a choking sound. "That's the impediment? Not the templar-fucking-hunters? I run and I'm an apostate all my days. Maybe they bring me back to a Circle. Maybe they'd send me to the Aenor."

"Our child is the reason the risk is worthwhile.  _Our child_ ," Cullen repeated. His expression was resolute as he cupped her face. "Before I knew it existed, I stole your phylactery from the Grand Cleric's knights. I'd  _never_  let them catch you if you wanted to run."

"They'll hang you, Cullen." She exhaled shakily, and gave in to his touch.

"Even…" He swallowed unsteadily. "So I will hang. Do not look so surprised! I have always known the mage children are not going to Jainen for the Circle, but for the ships across the Waking Sea. I agreed to come fully knowing I was aiding apostates."

Something broke inside her. "Damn it, Cullen. You should have told me."

"I see that now. I thought I was protecting you."

"I don't need—"

"Let me try," he interrupted. "I know you can handle more darkspawn than I in a fight. I know how capable you are, and how brave. If you wish it, I will give you your phylactery and walk away. Let the choice be yours."

Her soul railed against the notion that there was  _nothing_  she could do. And here, Cullen offered her  _something_. Solona did not believe she was as brave as he said. One hand wished to push him away, and the other needed to pull him to her like a shield. She wondered if he meant it— would he stop protecting her if she asked? He was still so entrenched in the thought patterns of a templar. How might she learn to trust him again?

Her rational mind said she could not have a family. She'd lost the right be a part of the world in the moment her magic erupted. She could not keep his child. If they survived the Blight, they would both go back to the Circle.

Her heart dared to want more.

* * *

**WINTER**

* * *

_Solona,_

_The Frostbacks are a stupid place to be in winter. Gherlen's Pass closed up tighter than a templar's arsehole in the last storm, so we are stuck here until the local dwarves dig us out, barring some kind of intervention from the Maker. Lissie, me, Leliana, Zevran, Wynne, Shale, Sten, Barky, and Morrigan. You think you know cold until you have to share a tent with Morrigan in a snowstorm. Not exactly my idea of cozy. You get the picture. Frosty frost mage._

_Ha!_

_So get this— Sten has been looking all over the kingdom for his special soul-sword, Asala. He lost it up near the lake and losing it made him go crazy and murder a bunch of Reacher farmers. If you believe his story. I did not, at first, but Lis always takes this kind of thing v. seriously. She likes people to owe her favors. (Don't tell her I said that.) Anyway, Sten and Morrigan went off on their own to look for it while we were in Oswin. A battlefield scavenger sold it to a human merchant named Faryn, who trades almost exclusively with Orzammar._

_Yadda yadda. We talked to Faryn today. Talk might not be the right word. Sten threatened to rip his arms off and Lis laughed. But it worked. Poor blighter spilled his guts. He sold it to a dwarf named Dwyn. Our same Dwyn from Redcliffe. Of course, I cannot remember him ever using anything but an axe. Sten wanted to turn around right away and go back, but we're stuck. That made him angry. Lis offered him a shovel and told him he could try and dig his way through the pass, or he could come with us to talk to the dwarves._

_Soooo if my letters stop coming, I'm probably not dead yet, just lost. Duncan once told me the Deep Roads are "indescribable." At the time I was excited. Silly me._

_Keep safe and mind the snow sneaking up on you,_

_Alistair_

* * *

The walls in the  _Dusty Gale_  Inn were plastered with curling sheets of yellow parchment. Solona studied them as she walked the perimeter of the common room. These were the names of the missing and the dead. The desperate pleas of families torn to pieces in the growing storm of war and Blight.

_Has anyone seen…_

_Mother, we have passage for Kirkwall. There is a ticket saved in your name…_

_My brother Gershwin was in King Cailan's army last spring…_

_Please, help me find my sister and her children…_

What had begun as a few frantic messages tacked onto the back of the Chanter's board had spread across every signpost, wall, and public space in Jainen. As the displaced Fereldans of the south flooded into Waking Sea, they carried with them the hope that they might find their lost loved ones already waiting for them.

_Mia, Branson, Rosalie—_

_I am safe._

It was a message as taciturn as the man who left it. Solona smiled, quietly glad to have discovered it, though she had not known until that moment that she had been searching for it. In the mornings, Cullen went out by himself to walk the docks, as the winter sunlight broke up the heavy fog. He never said why, but she did not need to ask him.

The last anyone knew, the newly-orphaned Rutherford siblings had fled on horseback for the South Reach, just ahead of the horde of darkspawn which now split the southern half of the kingdom in twain. There was no telling if Mia or Branson or Rosalie had survived beyond their meeting with Matthias in Honnleath, especially the badly injured Bran. Likewise, there was no way to let them know Cullen had survived the culling at Lake Calenhad.

_I am safe._

Cullen had not signed his name, she noticed. Perhaps this was done in fear that someday the Warden's companions would come down on the wrong side of history. If any lesson she had learned from the failure at Crestwood, it was thus: better to be anonymous. Days in Eremon lands had become twice perilous. Anyone, with the right persuasion, might become a Howe spy. The bann of the Storm Coast and her naval fleet were all that stood between Jainen and the civil war.

"Can I help you, missus?" inquired the mustachioed innkeeper when she reached the front of the line.

"Yes. How much to send a letter to Qarinus?"

He blinked. "Where?"

"Qarinus," Solona repeated clearly. "In the Imperium."

He considered this. "Two sovereigns."

"Two sovereigns?" she repeated in alarm. "It can't be that much!"

"There are no ships out of the city with Tevinter on their register, on account of all the magefolk trying to get out of Ferelden. Knight-Enchanter's orders, you see." He grimaced sympathetically. "Best that can be done is to get your letter on a ship bound for Jader or Cumberland and hope it gets past the pirates."

"I see. You were giving me a discount." She fished out the small fortune from her purse.

"Is it family?" he asked, appraising the weight of her purse at a glance.

"Hm?"

"The person in Tevinter? Is it family?" He lowered his voice. "Because if you were someone who  _knew_  a mage, I know a smuggler who can get you settled in Lowtown for a reasonable price. He does good papers, too, good enough to fool Stannard. Just saying. You'll never make it to the Vints 'fore that babe comes."

Maker, was the word MAGE branded on her flesh? Solona gave him her best blank look, and slid an envelope labeled with the name and address of  _Halward Pavus_  across the wooden countertop. "Messere Pavus is my grandmother's cousin."

"Very good, missus. Anything else I can help you with?"

"You seem quite well informed. What have you heard?"

"Ah yes, you're the third who's asked this morning," the innkeeper chuckled, as he wrapped his hand with a towel and reached for the kettle hanging above the fire. He poured out heady smelling coffee into a mug; it set Solona's mouth watering. "Everyone's thirsty for a bit o' news. Drink?"

"Yes, please." She accepted the offering. She gripped the clay mug with both hands, letting the warmth seep into her hands. Blood rushed to her fingernails. It was not so cold in this part of the inn, but it was drafty, and even with a wool shawl it was all she could do to keep her growing belly warm. She longed, just a little, for the days of enchanted warmth, but could not risk using the spells herself.

Jainen City was lousy with templars.

"More nobles have pledged themselves to Prince Alistair. He holds most of the west, by my figuring. All but Edgehall and West Hill. The former 'cos Arl Lendon is dead and the latter 'cos Bann Franderel is right scared of Loghain. Our own Bann Alfstanna was one of the first to bend her knee to him, with Bann Nell soon after."

Solona listened intently, feigning ignorance where it suited her. "But where did this new prince come from?"

"I've heard all sorts of stories. Rumor was once that Cailan weren't Maric's rightful heir, and that the real son was simple or a mage, kept locked away in the palace. There was also a rumor that Maric and Rowan prefered the company of anyone but each other, if you know what I mean, missus." He winked. "Could be plenty of blond bastards running about with King Maric's face. The difference is this one is a true heir, recognized by the Chantry and all that. Queen Rowan's family raised him and the Chantry educated him in one of those templar schools, would you believe?"

"A prince raised a templar?" she scoffed. "The knights are telling tales."

"That's wot I said." He leaned forward. "Course, he's a Grey Warden. Folks say Loghain wanted to kill off all the Grey Wardens so there would be no competition for his daughter the Queen. That makes more sense to me than this templar stuff."

"Mmm," she agreed, chewing through a mouthful of coffee. The texture was not unlike wet sand; the dregs had boiled down. Real Antivan coffee, a luxury these days to be sure. In Redcliffe they served chicory and passed it off as something better. This was not  _better_ , per say, but it was  _something_.

"Other folks says it's an Orlesian plot. How could a prince be kept secret until months after the death of his brother? The only heir a Warden, right when we need 'em most? Love to know that myself. Could the Empress start a Blight, even if she wanted to?"

"I doubt it," Solona shrugged. "I heard yesterday someone talking about the Warden. That he's rounding up recruits to fight what Loghain won't."

"She!" corrected the innkeeper gleefully. "You've really been under a rock if you don't know the Warden is a woman."

"How can a Grey Warden be a woman?"

"First one I've heard of. Figure that makes her a particular sort of mad, like all women in war. No one knows who she is. She comes and she kills what needs killing and then vanishes. Has to. Bounty on her head is sky high."

"That's terrible."

"Terrible nothing, missus! The Warden can handle herself! No one knows if they should beg her to save us, or turn her in for the reward money, but she's got mercenaries and assassins knocking down the doors of bounty hunters, so I'm content to keep to myself."

From the corner of her eye, she caught the door to the tavern blowing open. Solona set the mug back down on the counter, offered him some silver for his time, and wandered to the farthest table in the next room, cleanly out of the line of sight of the chatty innkeeper.

She gripped the edge of the table when she sat down, facing the wall. It was getting difficult to move freely, which gave this particular venture an added danger. She folded her hands, resting them on the globe of her stomach. She listened intently for footsteps, counting in her head to pass the time. After precisely two minutes, a traveller in a long cloak slipped around her to sit with his back to the wall.

He tugged down his hood, revealing a pale face with finely boned features, and a long ponytail of strawberry blond hair. "Andraste, you're as big as a whale!" Anders exclaimed, grinning and reaching across the table to grip her hands. "Is it Cullen's, you beast? You've broken my heart forever, you know. I saw him first."

"As if you had eyes for anyone but Karl," Solona replied, flashing him a genuine smile. "It's so good to see you, Anders."

"And you, Solona. When I got your message I thought, 'What is Solly doing in Jainen City, of all places, and not in her Circle like a good girl?' Actually, my first thought was to wonder how in the Void you found me. I had a good thing going before the whole city started crawling with templars and displaced mages."

"You heard about Kinloch?"

He sobered. "I did. Can't say I'm sorry to have missed that party. Do you know who survived?"

"Wynne, Petra, Kinnon, Finn, Godwin, Cera, Evelina, Sweeney, Torrin, Irving… and a few of the children. Keili… survived in body but not in mind. Of the tranquil, only Owain."

"So few?" he said, aghast. "I heard it was bad… but that is a massacre!"

"Not everyone was back from the Battle at Ostagar. I hold hope that they ran when they had the opportunity."

"Seventh time was the charm for me. Poor bastards. I see you took your own advice. But you did not mention the names of any templars. Please don't tell me Cullen…" Ander's face creased with concern, and he squeezed her hands.

She squeezed back. "He was tortured horribly by a desire demon for the better part of a week. But he survived."

Anders swore expressively.

"He spotted you two days ago in the lower market. It was his idea that we meet."

"He came with you? Good for the boy. How can I help?"

"We figure no one knows more about hunters than you, Anders. We got most of our friends on a boat to Kirkwall, but now they're checking for papers and I have none."

He frowned. "You are too obvious a target in your condition. Is it just you two? Do either of you have any family in Ferelden?"

"Just us," Solona nodded. "My cousins went to Kirkwall, Maker willing. They were in Lothering. Cullen's village was wiped out. But I have family and means beyond Ferelden. I've sent letters to the Trevelyans in Nevarra and Ostwick, the Amells in Kirkwall. Just now, the Pavuses in Qarinus."

"How do you know they won't be intercepted by the you-know-whats?"

"Oh. I thought this was clever." She shifted restlessly in her chair. "They all inquire about my health of my dead grandmother, and direct replies to my Aunt Lucille. She'll know what I mean. Name a city in the North and I have a family member living there."

"Cumberland," Anders said gamely.

"My twin brother, Max." Her face twisted. "I know. It might as well be Luna or Satina for the good it does me if I can't get on a ship."

Anders rapped his knuckles on the table. His fingers were oddly long, and chapped red from the winter air. He wore gloves with the fingers cut off, a dead giveaway to any other mage who saw him. "What you need is a horse."


	11. Sand (Alistair)

The hot drips of blood seemed to sizzle as they struck the sand. Alistair watched them fall, in a daze, forming red blossoms. The shoreline was white, the sand as bright as fresh snow. On his knees, he lifted one hand to catch the steady splash falling from his nose. _‘What?’_ he thought. _‘How did I…’_

With difficulty he scrambled to his feet. To his left, the sea churned, but it was conspicuously silent. His ears rang in the deafening quiet. As he climbed up the dune, his hands gripped at the beachgrass for leverage, for his bare toes sank deep into the shifting sand.

Beyond the dune stood a woman, apprising the blue-black waves as they crested the shore. She wore a long nightgown, sodden with blood. Her red hair fell in tangled curls to her waist, and she leaned on an old sword.

“You!” he called out, and was surprised that his voice carried loudly in this soundless void.

A pair of blue eyes, burning with cold fire, looked back at him. “Us,” the creature acknowledged, the thing-wearing-Elissa’s-skin. It was _her_ voice but layered upon with something deep, which made the hair stand up all over his body. Sinister— so close that it seemed it was whispering as a lover, intimate against his ear. “We have been waiting for you, King Alistair.”

“Demon,” he acknowledged. Alistair carefully spat out a mouthful of blood. With every step in his approach, his head throbbed more painfully, like it was pressed on both sides by a vice. “I have no use for your games tonight. I came to see the other one.”

The demon smiled. There were far too many sharp, white teeth in her pretty mouth. The lips stretched unnaturally to accommodate the grin. Her voice reverberated in his skull. “Surely you do not dream to summon Death on these spectral shores. Have you come to die, my liege? No, no, no, I think it wants something far more pathetic.”

Alistair flinched back at the recrimination. It took him a moment to gather the facade of courage again. It was deathly important that he appear unflappable and calm before her. He knew this demon. In waking moments, he was unable to hang on to the threads, but in sleep the memories returned. Justice, corrupted. They had done this dance before. How many times, he could not say. “Would you tell me, Vengeance, if the woman… Does the spirit behind the mask look like my mother?”

“Grey Wardens, Grey Wardens!” cooed Vengeance, pivoting around the old Cousland sword in a blur. The blue flames licked at her bare feet, turning the sand to glass where she danced. “Delightful monsters. Justice are so entranced when we find them. So much purpose! Then, we become what we ought to be. You are our tutors, Grey Wardens. Teach us the purity of revenge!”

He sighed. “That does not answer my question.”

“Does it not? Answer ours first!” she hissed, tilting her head nearly a full ninety degrees. “Do you see us _whispering_ behind the skin of your lady? Would you let us have her? She is not a mage— yet— but your essence, your lifeblood animates her. Your permission!”

“Never,” he croaked. But he needed to know. Was it too late?

“We would give her what she wants. We can give you more. A trade! The face of your true mother.” She stretched out her hand. “Her life, perhaps? We know it all.”

Alistair felt a smile form on his lips. “You must have very little to beg for such a lopsided bargain. I wondered if you had possessed Elissa, but I see you have not.”

The demon shreaked, a scream of pure frustration. “We are the Warden! We are her Vengeance.”

The dunes collapsed and Alistair lost his footing beneath the sound. He fell to one knee, clutching at his ears as they threatened to burst. “Not yet!”

“The desperation will come, King Alistair. In the Deep Roads, you will beg for us.”

Her sword was pulled free from its place in the sand, lifted two-handed above her blazing eyes. Desperation commanded him to move and he rolled, clumsily, dodging the first chop and ending up on his back. “Is that all? You are weak without the others.”

The demon gave pause, pulling her lank hair away from her face in a gesture that was startlingly humon. The tip of her sword dragged in the sand. She bared her teeth. “This is our place. They are not here to save you.” She hefted her weapon once more, struggling under the weight, perhaps unused to the form of the body she wore. Alistair struck out with his right fist; a lance of blue light pierced her abdomen.

Vengeance retreated, keening, slipping from the frame as a snake sheds its skin. “How will you know where one ends and the other begins?” it jeered.

Elissa gurgled, blood bubbling thickly from her mouth. Green eyes met him with a baffled expression. Her fingers mindlessly tried to piece together the hole rent in her stomach.

 

* * *

He woke up gasping, heart pounding from a formless nightmare. He chased it in his mind, but the memory was like fingers through smoke, formless and fading. _‘What?’_ Alistair thought, flaking away the dried blood stiffening in his moustache with his fingers. As he sat up, he saw a small brown smear staining the bedroll. _‘Another nosebleed. Damn this cold air.’_ He reached out beside him, searching for a warm body but coming up empty. He was alone.

* * *

 

The snow in Gherlen’s Pass came up to Alistair’s knees. It was a climb just to exit his tent. “Unusual weather,” the surface dwarves who lived at the gates of Orzammar muttered to each other in lieu of greeting, tramping past the Warden encampment in their wicker snowshoes. Goods and wares still trickled into the large, sheltered clearing which served as the above-ground market, but were now pulled by horse-and-sleigh instead of ox-and-wagon. Strange horses, too. Alistair had heard tales of the Avvar mounts from Master Dennet, but he had never seen one in person before. They were painted from tip to tail in patterns of crimson, white, or blue, and were tall enough that Sten might find a mount among them. The men of the mountains were rumored to be giants. The dwarves were— well— _dwarfed_ by their horses.

After months of rationing and hunger, Alistair found he could while away the early morning by wandering from stall to stall, with a pocket full of roasted chestnuts dipped in spiced sugar. The flavor was bright and sweet, tasting of Alistair’s memories of Firstfall in the monastery. The acolytes would lift wire baskets full of nuts over the braziers in the chantry; for once the Sisters turned a blind eye to their games. The services were long and dark at this time of year, punctuated only by bored children passing stinging-hot sweets down the aisles to one another.

The dwarven market was a wonder. Yet, this was rumored to only be a taste of what lay beneath. There were bolts of silk from Orlais, rolls of wide lace and jeweled skulls from Nevarra, fur and leather goods produced by Avvar craftsmen… Flour, sugar, spices, nuts, brightly colored fruits from Seheron and Rivain…

But perhaps the most intriguing sight was the caravan of food which was unloading at the stone gates to the city. Orzammar produced no food of her own, and relied primarily on trade with the Orlesian Empire to sustain its populace. Diplomatic ties with Ferelden were paltry at best. Bryce and Maric had made some headway over the years, but the fact of the matter was that Orlais had the most demand for lyrium. King Endrin had been uninterested in upsetting relations with the Divine. The Divine was technically neutral, but only technically. Many in Ferelden still remembered that the Chantry had preached that the Orlesian occupation was the Maker’s will.

Leliana’s footfalls in the snow were gentled by her snowshoes, painted a pale Avvar blue. “Hello” she exhaled breathlessly. Her nose and cheeks were red in the mountain air. “What do you think?”

Alistair offered her a chestnut, still warm in his bare palm. “I think we’ll be making the same deal next year. Orlesian grain at exorbitant prices. I wonder with what we will pay them?”

“That is a dark thought.” Leliana frowned, plucking the gift from his fingers and popping it in her mouth. He watched her chew, enjoying the moment when delight slowly spread across her face. “I meant, what do you think of my clothes?”

“Why are you wearing Elissa’s armor? Are you dressing up for Satinalia? I didn’t think we were doing that.” He smiled. “I saw some masks of the Divine in one of the stalls.”

“How scandalous,” Leliana laughed. “Evidently I am the Warden today. I tried to curl my hair, but it did not take. What do you think? Will I pass?”

Alistair inspected her as she turned in a wide, shuffling circle, showing off the movement of her cape. To anyone in their inner circle, the difference between Lissa and Leliana was night and day. Lissa’s hair was a deeper shade of red, and she was several inches taller. Leliana had more of a golden complexion and strikingly blue eyes. In an effort to mimic her friend, Leliana had painted her mouth with rouge, and gone heavy-handed with the kohl pencil to darken her ginger eyelashes.

“From a distance,” Alistair agreed, “but nobody who has met her will be fooled.”

“You’d be surprised,” Leliana countered. A subtle shift came over her face. She narrowed her eyes and widened her mouth, and when she spoke again, it was with Lissa’s Highever brogue. “People see what they want to see— the blue armor, darling Alistair.”

“Eurgh.”

“Not bad?”

“It is close,” he allowed.

“We’ve been practicing,” Leliana continued in her affected accent. “You never know when she might need a body double. In Orlais, where the nobility wear masks— and not just for the holiday— people are known by their gesture and posture, as well as their voices. Some bards are hired simply for their uncanny knack with impersonation. It was not one of my tricks, unfortunately.”

Alistair rubbed his elbow. “You still say ‘Orlais’ like an Orlesian. And the cadence is… strange.”

Her nose crinkled. “Noted.”

“How long can you keep it up?”

“As long as I have to. A dozen more surfacers want the Warden to carry petitions to the deshyrs, and each one feels he is worthy of her personal attention. So tedious, but if even one of them is important, the exercise will be worth it.” Leliana’s eyes lit up. “A war like this is won by a thousand tiny cuts. We hold Redcliffe not because we won a battle, but because we rescued Owen’s daughter, we listened to the needs of Mayor Murdoch, and we fortified Ser Perth’s faith.”

“The battle helped,” Alistair remarked, raising a sceptical eyebrow. “But I see what you mean. Every person who walks away feeling like they were personally assisted by the Warden will tell ten more.”

“More importantly, it separates her from Howe’s smear campaign against Bryce Cousland. It’s much harder to stamp out a nameless hero. Why, any woman might be the Warden!”

He had a flash of a thought, inexplicably, of standing on shifting sand. He frowned. “Nobody is like her, Leliana.”

“You know that. I know that.” She patted him on the arm. “Howe is very good at what he does. We must be better. There will come a day, soon I fear, when he will try to drag your names through the mud.”

“What can I do?” he asked.

“You might kill him first.” Leliana grinned darkly. “Just a thought.”

 

* * *

Elissa, wrapped heavily in furs, sat on a blackened stump on a ledge above the camp. It was not an insignificant climb, especially in deep powdery snow, though her path was obvious enough to follow. She faced to the west, with the morning sun high at her back and a book clutched between her rabbit fur mittens. Barky rested at her heels, half-burrowed into the snowbank. It was a clear, cloudless day, the first they had seen in a week. From this place on the mountain, in this weather, one could see far into the Orlesian side of the Frostbacks, and down into the pass, until it all faded into white mist. Even where they stood was contested territory between the kingdoms.

“I was thinking,” Lissa said overly-loud, acknowledging Alistair’s approach without turning around. “Look at it. It’s beautiful here.”

“Planning on running to Orlais, my dear?”

“That is always a temptation.” She smiled mirthlessly. “Come, share in my morning’s headache. Tell me, do you know where to find Edgehall?”

“Due south from here, I’d say. We would not make it in just one day, even without the snows. Why? Have you changed your mind about Orzammar?”

“Hm, no. Merely planning. There are troubles in that arling.”

“I know that Arl Fergus died last winter. There was some talk that the local banns were considering defecting to the Orlesians. But I thought his brother’s return from exile settled the matter of inheritance.”

“King Cailan died before Gell Lendon could be formally installed as the arl. It’s a symbolic gesture, but every lord must bend their knee in the Court. To complicate things, the brother is the worst kind of man— cruel and probably an Orlesian puppet— disliked by his banns and his people.” She sighed. “But somehow he has been holding off the darkspawn.”

“So we need him, if he is not overthrown in the meantime.”

“Exactly. I sent an agent down to assess things. Or rather, I borrowed an agent of the Crown in your name.”

It was jarring to reconcile the entity of the Crown with himself. Alistair tried his best to match her disinterested tone. “I cannot imagine Anora would be pleased.”

Elissa waved her hand. “I’ll bear the brunt of Anora’s rage if it ever gets back to her, but I imagine house arrest keeps her more than occupied. The agent— Engar— has a particular mission. The one you requested of me.”

“The Urn of Sacred Ashes?” he said in surprise, helping her to her feet.

“A mage was impersonating Brother Genitivi’s assistant back in Denerim, sending Isolde’s knights dutifully to every blind corner of the kingdom. The man put up a fight when he was discovered. Engar barely got out with his life.” She winced.

“An escapee from the Circle?”

“Their records are in shambles. No way of knowing. At first, I thought it was another dead end. It was actually Cullen’s stories of Honnleath that gave me an idea. Apostates are not uncommon in the remote villages. Genitivi’s notes specifically mention his search for just such a village…”

“In the arling of Edgehall,” Alistair finished for her. “Yes, I see where this is going.”

They walked along the flat trail at the cliff’s edge, arm in arm. The mabari trotted several paces ahead of them, oblivious to the cold and sure in his footing. Elissa was smaller, somehow, without her Warden armor.

“Edgehall,” she said. “I’ve started calling it ‘Loghain’s Nightmare’ in my head. The place where all his darkest fears hold true. Maker! Gell Lendon is using Orlesian mercenaries to hold it. I despise the idea that Loghain might be right, by any definition.”

“What is on your mind?”

She stopped short at the trailhead, looking troubled. “Constable Blackwall’s men came with chevaliers. Cailan was courting the Empress.” She squeezed her eyes together in a heavy blink against the glaring snow. “Alistair, what if Loghain is right?”

“He’s not,” Alistair replied simply, rubbing her chapped fingers to warm them in his own larger hands.

“I wish I had your confidence.”

“Knowing why he did it does not excuse what he has done, and what he continues to do.”

“But suppose we measure ourselves by our intentions and our enemies by their deeds? Suppose both sides have sunk to justifying necessary evils? I find… I find that being a Grey Warden and being a vassal to Ferelden are at odds. Moreso than usual.”

“What did you do?”

“I sought to find out whether Blackwall’s men might move through Edgehall.”

“Maker’s breath! If Loghain ever found out—”

“Then he would have what he wants. So be it. Do you know what Blightlands become? Deserts. Everything turns to...”

“Do you dream of it, too?”

Lissa lifted her head. “What?”

“Sand.”

She nodded somberly. “Do you think it means something?”

Alistair squeezed her hand tighter. “No. I’m sure it is nothing.” He searched her, hunting for the thing-behind-her-eyes, the flash of blue he'd seen at Oswin and felt hunting in the deep waters of their soul bind. And although he saw nothing, he could not shake his sense of terror.

He would have to speak to Morrigan.


	12. Shape (Alistair)

Alistair waited two hours in an antechamber in the dwarven Shaperate. Someone would come for him soon, the servant assured him, perpetually buzzing about, offering hot tea and little cakes which looked sweet but tasted savory. They were delicious. He ate eleven of them before the guilt got the better of him. Surely there was not an infinite supply, but the dwarven servant kept offering.

It was a room designed for waiting, Alistair surmised, rifling through a stack of leaflets left on top of _Darktown’s Deal_ by Varric Tethras. He could feel the hard stone of the bench straight through the cushion. The inn had stone beds. Maker! Why bother with beds? Why not just sleep on the floor? Perhaps their backsides were immune to soreness! He restlessly turned the pages of a catalogue of weaponry, the latest on offer from a merchant on the promenade. The prices were double what he thought was reasonable. He could not determine whether it was inflation, greed, or quality which caused the discrepancy, but he admired the pictures nevertheless. It was a marvelous expense to print etchings. Outside of Eamon’s library, he had only ever seen one book with pictures, in the _Illustrated Manuscript of Thedas_ , which was so prized by Mother Dreya that he got three months of scrubbing duty just for touching it.

This smith, he thought, must be doing quite well for himself. There was a dragonbone dagger on offer that caught his eye, called the Rose’s Thorn, meant to be an exact replica of a famous kingslaying blade from Antiva. The price was one hundred and forty-eight sovereigns. Might as well ask for the moons! Nobody he knew had that kind of coin in their purse. Still, he wondered if Garin might be able to make a matched pair. Never hurt to ask. Dwarven blacksmiths were the best in the world. The name felt like… fate. He ran his fingers over the illustration of the pommel, admiring the shape of the blooming rose.

_She cracked a pale smile. “Do you think I’m thorny?”_

_“No, but now I’m a little worried about your self preservation instincts. Didn’t it hurt?”_

The door opened, and Alistair stumbled out of the daydream. In shuffled a wizened old dwarf, with a walking stick and a ruffled head of yellow-white hair. “When I last walked this hall,” he said, “Endrin was king and Orzammar was at peace. The Memories often speak of the swiftness with which change takes us, but it is different to see it firsthand. I apologize, Warden Alistair. I should not burden a stranger with such thoughts. I am Czibor, the Shaper of Memories.” His voice was soothing and deep.

“You know my name?”

“The Grey Warden’s visit has been recorded in the memories, along with all who accompany her.” The old dwarf’s face crinkled into a wry smile. “There is only one human man in our city.”

Alistair flushed. “Er, yes, I suppose it was an easy guess.”

“You made an appointment to view the Memories.” He gestured for Alistair to follow him, and he did, half-bewildered.

“I did. Forgive me, but I thought I would be speaking with one of the assistants. Not the Lord Shaper himself.”

“It is not know to be uncommon for Grey Wardens to come seeking the histories of their comrades. Especially those who come for their final journeys,” replied Czibor thoughtfully. “However, the Memory you seek, Lieutenant, drew my personal attention.”

“Why is that?”

“Come. I will explain.”

The main body of the Shaperate was an enormous library. Bigger than the public library in Redcliffe, bigger than the library in Bournshire Monastery, probably bigger than any in Denerim. They passed through aisle after aisle of shelves, each brimming with books. The ends of the aisles were labeled with the runic alphabet, which Alistair could not read, so he felt a little blind.

The deeper into the Shaperate library they travelled, the fewer volumes he saw with Common on their spines. Common was a trade tongue, an amalgam of Old Tevene and dwarfspeech and other dying languages. Fereldans used it as their first language, as the Clayne tongue had fallen out of use before even the days of Calenhad, but almost everyone in Southern Thedas knew enough to get by. As far as he could tell, it was also the first tongue of the Orzammar dwarves, though their accents were strangely flat to his ears.

These books were old. Very old. Written on vellum and bound in hide. They smelled of earth and time. He could feel the soft hum of the runes built into the stone shelves, whistling with preservation charms. The Memories of Orzammar went back two thousand years. Everything else had been lost when the thaigs fell to the darkspawn. The oldest were not books at all, he noticed, but stone tablets preserved with wax.

They veered away from the deep stacks and paused before a door. Czibor removed a ring of keys from his pocket, so thickly crowded that he could hardly slide them about, and hunted for the one he needed. Alistair tried to tamp down his sudden impatience. “What is this place?” he asked. The silence made the humming of the runes almost unbearable.

“The Memories of the Grey Wardens, of course.” Czibor raised an ruffled white eyebrow. He looked like a bearded owl, Alistair thought, trying not to laugh at his own joke. Maker, he was terribly anxious. This was a bad idea.

“You keep them locked up?”

“Only the dangerous ones.”

“Dangerous in particular, or are all the histories of the Wardens considered dangerous?”

Czibor found the key he was looking for on the fourth try. “Ah,” he sighed, satisfied as the lock gave way, not with a click, but with the rumble of large tumblers. “Knowledge is open to all dwarves, but this is not the knowledge of just our people. Weisshaupt requests that we keep these thoughts… quiet. These, you see, are the stories of Grey Warden Callings.”

“Oh.” Alistair sucked in air. The room was claustrophobic and musty, like a narrow pocket in a cave, and was stacked high with books. These Memories had overrun their shelves. Too many deaths. He regarded the room solemnly. In many ways, these were the only grave markers a Warden would have. One last tale, on the knife’s edge of madness, told to the shapers before the song of the Calling pulled them away to the Deep Roads. The story of their lives.

He had heard that song once. In the snow at Ostagar fortress. _Kill, rend, tear…_ It was sweet. It was maddeningly sweet. _Come_ , it said, _you are mine._

Just a taste of it. He was deathly afraid to hear it again. For only after Elissa Cousland had pulled him away from the maw in the earth did he realize that it was not coming from inside his own head. Not _his_ calling. It was _hers_.

_‘Why?’_ He wondered, but had no one to ask. Damn Duncan and all the other senior Wardens for dying on him, and leaving him with only the broken pieces to the puzzle that was their Order. Damn Alisse Fontaine for proving untrustworthy. ‘ _If the Archdemon was so strong in that place, why were we not both compelled? Why only her song? Where was mine?’_

“Lord Shaper, I did not ask about Warden Callings,” Alistair said aloud. He was too afraid to ask about Callings. Later. Give him twenty-eight more years of life and he would find out then.

“You asked for the record of your King Maric, and the time he journeyed with Warden-Commander Genevieve’s command to Ortan Thaig.”

Alistair’s mouth went dry. “And this has been stored with the Callings because… Because Wardens died on the quest?” His mind worked frantically. “Or because Weisshaupt does not want people to read it?”

“Yes,” agreed Czibor.

_‘Was that a yes to the first or a yes to the second. Or both?’_ He grimaced, trying to form an argument more persuasive than the agreement between the Shaperate and the First Warden. He came up empty. “I…”

“The second part of your request is why you come before me, Warden-Lieutenant Alistair.”

“Warden Fiona?” His heart sank into his stomach. She was here. Of course she was. He’d always known his mother was dead.

* * *

_Alistair and Elissa sat in silence, on opposite sides of the bed. Elissa stood up, moved to the small table, and poured herself a cup of water. “What do you want to talk about first?” she asked, studying her own reflection in the wall mirror as she swallowed. Like she could not even look at him. “Your magic or your mother?”_

_He shook his head. “That may be the same topic.”_

_“How so?”_

_“Warden Fiona, I mean, I’ve heard of her. You were right when you said Duncan knew her. He talked about her sometimes.”_

_“To you?” She set down the cup. “Do you think he was trying to tell you about her?”_

_He spooled his fingers together. “No. Actually, come to think of it he would change subjects if he caught me listening. At the time I thought-- and this was obviously foolish-- but at the time I thought he was sort of easing me in to things.”_

‘Because I was a templar. And Fiona was a mage,’ _he did not say out loud._

_“I see,” she lied._

_“I’ve been wracking my brain trying to remember some story,_ any _story, about this woman who was apparently my mother. You see, I never had much information about Rhona. Eamon didn’t like talking about her. I knew she had a daughter, Goldanna, who was ten years of age when Rhona died. I knew Rhona was a scullery maid. When I was a kid I would sneak into the servants’ hall and just sit there, trying to be closer to her. And it was not much, but it was mine. Like her amulet.” He pulled the chain, lifting the medal from under his shirt. “Was this hers? Or did it belong to Warden Fiona?”_

_Elissa sat down on the foot of the bed, silently willing him to continue._  
  
_“I did wonder where she got it. It is not like any amulet of Andraste I have ever seen. Maybe because it is not Fereldan.”_

_“Fiona was one of the Orlesian Grey Wardens?”_

_“They all were, I think. Even Duncan was recruited in Val Royeaux, though I believe he was originally from Highever. Later on, under Warden-Commander Polara they began recruiting here, when Maric gave his permission.” He knew all of that. Of course he did. He knew plenty of Grey Warden history._

_Just not the important parts._

_“An Orlesian. That would have been a lot for the Landsmeet to accept, even from a king as popular as Maric. Especially just after the war.” Her brow crinkled. “And particularly with a best friend like Loghain.”_

_“I just don’t see why… If Eamon was going to lie to me anyway, if I was always going to be this shameful secret, why not lie about both my parents? Why not make my father some nameless mercenary?” He hung his head in his hands, leaning forward._

_Elissa laid a hand on his knee. “Maric wanted you.”_

_"More likely his pride kept him from completely freeing me. He could have spared me the constant, crushing shame.” Alistair grit his teeth, immediately regretting the words as he spoke them. His cheeks burned._

* * *

Lord Shaper Czibor reached out and tapped a rune. The lights in the Memories of the Calling brightened to that particular yellow glow which Alistair associated with Orzammar. Artificial and strained.

It was all organized by runic script. It would take him days to find the right book, even if he knew what he was looking for. He fantasized briefly of breaking into the Shaperate, stealing the key, and… he was not a rogue. Maybe Leliana would do it, if he asked. Not Lissie. He did not want her touching this.

“Please,” he found himself saying, sweeping his eyes across the chaotic stacks.  “Warden Fiona and King Maric were my parents. I need to know.”

Czibor nodded, smiling, as if he had been waiting for those exact words. “The right of ancestry is absolute. By law and custom, any descendant can access their ancestors’ Memories. I will help you, Lieutenant. Pardon. Is it more correct to call you Your Highness? I am unsure of your standing in surface custom.”

Alistair’s eyes narrowed as he studied the ancient dwarf. Had he known all along? But he dismissed that thought. How could he? “Just Alistair is fine.” On second thought, he hastily amended, “But perhaps don’t record that in your Memories. My friend, the Warden, would be very angry if I wind up a king and your deshyrs start calling me ‘Just Alistair’.” He snorted.

“As you wish,” Czibor chuckled. The dwarf took two steps forward and removed a book from the very top of the stack. It was utterly unremarkable, bound in brown leather like all the others, embossed with the seal of the griffon.

The top of the stack. Alistair felt his mouth fall open, and forced it shut. He nearly bit his tongue in the process.

“This is the Memory of King Maric in the Deep Roads, as told to the shapers by Warden Duncan. It took me some time to locate.” Gzibor suddenly frowned, looking distracted as he handed it over. “If you want the first, one of my apprentices will help you look in the section on Ortan Thaig.”

“There is another?” In the same breath he hissed, “Twice! Of course, Maric came to the Deep Roads twice! That is how he got past the Orlesians at Gwaren.”

“The Memories credit your father with the rediscovery of lost Ortan Thaig. Maric recounted the story himself to me.” Czibor spread his gnarled hands. “Over twenty years ago, I was newly the Lord Shaper. The honor fell to my ears and my hands.”

“Have you read it?” Alistair furrowed his brow. “Which should I read first?”

The dignified old man simply shrugged. It seemed an uncharacteristic gesture. “The knowledge is necessary. Partake in both. But know that it must not leave this room. There will be guards to help you remember.”

Alistair sat down on the floor of that crowded little tomb, and opened the book. Not printed, he realized, noting his mistake. Handwritten. The shaper had beautiful writing. Of course-- there would only be one copy. “One more question, please. Who told you this knowledge was dangerous?”

Czibor sketched a little bow as he left. “Warden Duncan himself, Your Highness.”

_‘Shit,’_ he thought, blinking thickly. As a rush it came to him; calling these books Memories had seemed a silly dwarven custom until he held one in his hands. The weight of it dragged on him, and a cold sweat broke out on the palms of his hands.

Maric and… Fiona. It felt supremely disloyal to think of Fiona as his mother. He was betraying Rhona’s memory, and all the guilt and love that was mixed up in the knowledge that she had died to give him life. _‘Rhona was real,’_ he told himself, touching the amulet of Andraste. _‘She was real and she died trying to birth a baby.’_ Maybe that baby was not him. Maker, maybe it had died with her. Hadn’t Goldanna said that to him once? Alistair had been so young when she went away to Denerim, he could hardly trust himself to know.

Could he love two mothers?

He opened Duncan’s book.


	13. Brittle (Elissa)

_“Maric wanted you.”_

_Elissa heard Alistair’s teeth work in his jaw. He said, “More likely his pride kept him from completely freeing me. He could have spared me the constant, crushing shame.”_

_She startled at his vehemence, reading anger in the flush on his face. Did he really think it would be better not to know his parents? Had she made a mistake in sharing Fiona’s name with im?_

_“I won’t defend what he did. Or what Eamon did.” She attempted to gentle her voice as she searched out his hand. It did not come natural, but he gave no hint that he noticed. She slipped her fingers against his, entwining them. His hand was warm, and rough, polished with calluses in the imprint of the grip of his sword. A warrior’s palm, she thought, feeling for the tremors which sometimes flared up with his injury, but there was nothing to find. He was steady as a rock. She worried the inside of her cheek, feeling less than certain of herself and disliking the sensation. “Or what I did.”_

_“You had your reasons.” Always coming to her defense._

_“I did,” she agreed. Stupid fucking reasons, and yet they had seemed so important. Like Ferelden had been a tower to climb, with each stair labeled ‘find a new king’, ‘defeat the archdemon’, ‘oust Loghain from the throne’. Simple._

_She considered quietly, in the silence that followed, if she had met Alistair under other circumstances, would she still be here, fighting against the burning ache in her chest? After all, she had a history of running when people got too close._

_She had disliked him from the start, for being loud and brash. Too proud of the reputation of his precious Grey Wardens, too willing to hand over command to a virtual stranger, too… much. Full of_ muchness _! He was life and hope when everything around her was clouded by death. The stench had seeped under her skin, tainting her long before the Joining chalice hit her lips. The Joining did not merely change a person; it amplified them. Strength, stamina, hunger…_

_A dozen Grey Wardens on good ground could hold against a king’s army. Or so the stories said._

_How dare Alistair be so alive when everyone else she cared about was gone in one night? How dare he die so easily?_

_She loved him. They were bound in undeath, commanded by the Witch and her necromancy to finish the task. The Howe siblings had Fiona’s name. That made them a liability. But she had promised Thomas his life. What was the value of her pledge? She wondered at herself, at the creature she was becoming, the sort who hunted monsters in the dark. The changes were creeping upon her slowly._

_Alistair hissed between his teeth. Elissa caught herself mindlessly squeezing his wrist between her thumb and forefinger. The flesh was white where she released him. She mumbled an apology, lifting his hand to soothe it with a kiss._

_“What is on your mind?”_

_“I’m just plotting a murder.” She smiled— charming, bright— to disarm her honesty._

_“Funny.”_

_She grasped for a better topic. “Isolde must have had salons.”_

_“I do not think so. The Fereldan ladies did not like her. I credit their judgment.”_

_“Not even the banns’ wives?”_

_“I cannot remember them coming around more than they had to. But she used to make the circuits in Denerim and Asburg.”_

_“Hm. I was too young to hear half the things that were said in Mother’s salon when King Maric refused to remarry. They rarely remembered I was there.” She offered him the memory, because it was all she had to give. The bored gossip of nobles puzzled out by a young child, sitting at her mother’s feet. “A year is the usual prescribed period of deep mourning for the death of a monarch, and then a second year of light mourning, during which the palace household might attend the most important social events but beg out of the lesser ones. The queen passed some months after mine own birthing. Yet in the years I can remember, Maric kept his black. Even to his death._

_“You were born in ten, yes? Three-ish years after me. There was a good deal of scrambling between the eligible houses to find the king a suitable match. Lady Kendells— whatever her name was, you know, Urien’s sister— practically flung herself at him. If nothing else, to get the poor court out of the black. I never did pack a dress for Denerim that had color until my debut.  Mmm. I don’t mean to say he was totally alone.” Her eyes flicked across his cheeks, reluctantly adding, “Every king has his mistresses.”_

_“Do I get to pick, or are they assigned?”_

_She grinned wryly. “You’re not the king yet. Mother used to jest that Maric ‘had a type’.”_

_He groaned. “Dare I ask?”_

_“She never said. The implication was enough for the adults. Used to make me so cross! Andraste’s eyes, I can hardly remember. I think that he liked ‘unsuitable’ women.”_

_“Unsuitable,” Alistair murmured. “That is me— His Royal Highness, Prince Unsuitable. But what does that mean?”_

_“Orlesians,” Elissa explained, tapping his nose with a half-grin. “Geraldine told me once that Emperor Florian tried a dozen times to slip a spy into Maric’s bed, but it never worked again after the first time. Loghain was too vigilant.”_

_Alistair stood up, pacing away toward the door. “You think Warden Fiona was the Emperor’s spy. And that is why they told me Rhona was my mother?”_

_“Keep your voice down.” She folded her arms. “The College of Bards aren’t omnipotent, although they would be glad for you to think they are. This Fiona— whoever she was— slipped someone’s leash. What did Duncan say about her?”_

_“Only that she was a mage.”_

_“I presumed that, when you said ‘’one and the same’.”_

_“It bothers you.”_

_“It bothers me that you think it bothers me!” She rolled her eyes. “When have I ever—?”_

_“It_ should _bother you. Reasonable people would say so.”_

_At that she laughed. “Don’t start accusing me of being reasonable!”_

_“Do you think mage outweighs spy?” he asked in a self-deprecating voice. He sat lightly on his knees before her, and laid his head in her lap. She carded her fingers through his blonde hair. It was getting long around the ears._

_“Does it matter?” she asked._

_“Not really.” His eyes fluttered shut. A lazy warmth came over him, and his muscles slowly turned to pools of liquid at her touch, as though she were the one with magic in her hands._

_“You might have told me during that business with Jowan.”_

_“Wasn’t it better not to know?”_

_Her mouth pressed into a tight line, feeling a wave of sadness wash over her. “Most people are reasonable, after all.”_

_It was like drowning._

 

* * *

 

 

Ferelden was not a tower. It was a web. Anyone would tell you that the spider never sits in the center. She was beginning to have serious doubts that it was the Regent tugging on the threads. But if Loghain Mac Tir was not the spider, who was? Rendon Howe? The Empress and her spymaster? A Grandmaster of the Crows? Someone who had not yet tipped their hand.

When Elissa touched the web, she could feel the vibrations leading somewhere through and past the throne. A king was just a piece on the board, after all. Cailan had not been the most powerful man in his kingdom. No, that fell to the King’s Council— Teyrn Bryce Cousland of Highever, Arl Urien Kendells of Denerim, Arl Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe, Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir of Gwaren. The fifth chair traditionally belonged to a woman. The avatar of Andraste’s will. Usually that meant a Mother of the Chantry, but Queen Rowan herself had fielded the spot at the head of the council before her illness. Currently it belonged to Grand Cleric Elemena, who was as deaf as a post and as dangerous as a snake. She’d gracefully survived whatever move Loghain had made against her. Did Elemena know her enemy?

The templars were closing ranks. That was a different sort of problem.

It irritated Elissa that she could see so little of the game, that every plan she set in motion was always ten steps behind. She distracted herself with stomping out little fires. Bhelen— the grasping, conniving prince of Orzammar— she thought would be a good candidate for her spider, if dwarves were the sort to look topside. She admired him, actually. Not for the fratricide— that made him a short-sighted shithead— but for his bald faced tenacity. What she would do with him, she did not know. To amuse herself, for every favor she did the prince, she paid one back to Lord Harrowmont. Let them brood in their beautiful halls. She would take whomever was most grateful in the end. Kingmaking was a sorry business.

But the templars. The templars were _her_ problem.

The lonely Warden crouched at the edge of roof in Dust Town, watching three Carta enforcers loiter on a street corner. She kept her cloak wrapped around her tightly for the camouflage. It was warm enough in the under city that she was sweating under all that wool. _‘Ridiculous blue uniform,’_ she thought, not for the first time that day.

The lightest whisper of sound behind her had her turning her head, certain she caught footstep on loose gravel. But there was no one her straining eyes could see. She knew only one person who could move like that. “Zev,” Elissa sighed. “You’re late.”

“Eight hours in a library,” the elf complained, uncloaking from stealth as he crept up beside. The assassin smelled of tallow and black powder. “A lesser man would have lost his mind, my dear Warden.”

She scrunched up her nose. “What was he doing?”

“Reading.” His laugh was under his breath. “He had a meeting with the man in charge.” From under his shirt, Zevran produced a yellow leaflet. “Do you have a name day coming? Shall I find you a present, too?”

It was some sort of catalogue, from a merchant in the Diamond Quarter. “It passed.”

“Uncelebrated? Tsk,” he tutted.

“Unlamented.”

“And here I thought I could find some of that lovely perfume you wear.”

“What is it with men and perfume?” Before he could answer her, Elissa leapt off the rooftop and landed on the head of the closest Carta dwarf. Her knife went quick through the back of his neck, and she kicked out the knees of the second while Zevran silenced the third. He’d followed without question.

“A man loves a mystery,” Zevran concluded, wiping his blade on his bracer. “Like, for example, who are these?”

“Jarvia’s personal enforcers,” Elissa explained, watching a dozen eyes in the shadows of the street retreat from her gaze.

“Head of the Carta, Jarvia?” He pursed his lips together like he might whistle, but stopped when she raised her hand. “How close?”

“Close.” She nudged the corpses over with the toe of her boot, avoiding stepping into the spreading puddles. “We need a token to get inside. Should look like a key fashioned out of finger bones. Help me look before someone comes.”

Zevran’s smile dimmed. “You were going to do this by yourself?” He reached down and unclipped an object matching her description from a belt.

“I waited for you, didn’t I?”

“That is alright, then.” He sounded cheerful, but his large eyes were glowing in the strange dim light of Dust Town, and she saw them narrow rather plainly. “With me you have more than enough talent to handle such an _easy_ target. But humor me. Why not ask along Sten, or Leliana, or any of the others sniffling the bottom of a black ale in _Tapster’s_? I know a suicidal impulse when I see one, my dear Warden.”

When it was just them two, that was all he ever called her. ‘My dear Warden’, said like a caress, but also holding her at a distance. She never knew what to make of that. Sometimes she thought they were a little too alike, Zevran and her.

“I’m not— Are you coming or what?”

“Lead the way.” He held out the token. The little bones were threaded together with wire. There were a line of runes scrimshawed black into the yellowed metacarpal. It seemed an oddly evil thing to carry, and she reluctantly shuffled that bad omen into her hip pouch, nestling it into her invisibility powders.

There were no guards in Dust Town, but still she felt uneasy lingering over bodies she’d laid down. She spared one last glance at the tattoos on their faces, wondering which meant Carta and which simply meant the ill fortune of a casteless birth. The beggars had cleared out of the street, creeping back into their allies so they could claim they’d seen nothing when the gangs rolled through. Elissa had spread enough coin around to buy a few hours of silence. Long enough, she hoped, to get to Jarvia. It had to be now. The door would change tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

_“Did he survive?” The elf— Zevran— was stripped to his underclothes and bound with rope to a chair. She thought he could easily slip the knots, but had chosen to wait her out. That thought did not please her._

_“You’re still breathing,” she answered._

_"Let me say that you Grey Wardens are the epitome of charm and hospitality. I enjoy breathing your air. Fie on anyone who says it smells of wet dog.” He smiled grimly. “Do you have a rack? My neck is in need of a good stretch.”_

_With her one good arm, she slowly unbuckled her belt. It clattered to the floor with her knife still in its holster. The arm in a sling twinged with every jostle, but she refused to show pain. Her face was a blank mask. If Alistair died, what the fuck did any of it even matter? The screaming woman inside her had coiled up into a place near her heart, walled in where her tears could not reach the surface. “I’m not going to torture you, Zevran.”_

_“Oh. Good.” He scanned her face and came away disconcerted. Murder, he understood. Torture, he understood. What was this?_

_She wanted to say that if Alistair died, Zevran would follow. If Alistair was paralyzed, Zevran would share his pain. But those were the desires of Elissa Cousland. One woman, useless and weak, unable to stop death from coming. She needed help. And as much as it pained her, she needed someone like Zevran Arainai. “The Warden is merciful,” she offered._

_A confused smile played on his lips. “And beautiful. No one says that. Yet. Give them time.”_

_“You owe me a blood debt, Zevran of the Crows. I know Antivans value their honor.”_

_“You were very close to an Antivan, to know of such a thing.”_

_“Oriana Salazar.”_

_“Salazar. I see. The Merchant-Prince of Seleny?”_

_“His daughter. My brother’s wife.”_

_Zevran’s eyebrows rose. “Princes of Antiva, Kings of Ferelden… You travel in high circles, my dear Warden. Who are you, and what can I do for you?”_

  



	14. Bare (Elissa)

The door was like any other door in Dust Town; that is to say, it was made of solid stone, with its iron hinges rusting away from a lack of attention. On most days it led to an abandoned home last rented by a man called Faren Brosca. Most days— but not today.

Only because Elissa know to look for it did she see a shimmer where none belonged, like a patch of hot air rising from the magma flows. She touched the space behind the shimmer and discovered a fold in the stone. Her finger slipped easily inside. She immediately retracted her hand, heart racing as she heard the sudden  _ping_  of a tiny blade striking stone. ' _Rule one: check for traps!'_  she scolded herself. She protectively clutched her pointer in her opposite fist, and regarded the stone with a cautious respect.

They said that this door changed places every day, and that it was impossible for anyone outside of the gang to find. How much of that rumor held true, she did not know, but so far it had successfully kept the deshyrs' men at bay. The pay for the job was good. Very good, actually, almost too good. House Harrowmont and House Aeducan had practically begged her in turn.

Mistress Jarvia was new to her position, and she had overstepped some traditional boundary between the Diamond Quarter and Dust Town in the absence of a king. Jarvia's late husband, Beraht, had left her his business in the Commons. Allegedly, he was also the previous head of the gang. This was a problem for a man like Pyral Harrowmont, who was a traditionalist by nature. Harrowmont wanted Jarvia gone lest someone learn the Merchant Caste had been running the Carta all along.

Prince Bhelen had a slightly more intimate problem. His favorite mistress, Brosca's sister, had fucked her way into his good graces on the back of Beraht's coin. The so-called "noble hunter" had given Bhelen a son, which according to the unusual traditions of Orzammar elevated all Brosca kin to noble status.

Even after it had been explained to her, Elissa had a hard time wrapping her head around their system. It made a certain sense to elevate the mother of a royal child. But the reverse also held true! A lowborn brat could ruin a whole house, unless it was cast out, abandoned by kind and memory. It meant, as she understood it, the most valuable commodity in Orzammar was between a woman's legs. Did the prosperous families mourn the births of their daughters?

That thought made her angry, with a fury that left her shaking. When she'd heard the story of Zerlinda and seen her infant, wrapped in rags, her heart broke for them. For want of a casted father, mother and babe were thrown from their family home and into the streets. The healthy birth of a wanted child should have been the happiest day in the young woman's life. But that it was born the wrong sex— a son as castless as his father. It had become a millstone around Zerlinda's neck. That, Elissa could understand. She remembered clearly the dread of a future with no prospects, the label of a ruined woman stamped upon her skin as surely as a dwarven tattoo. It was two days past the seventh anniversary of the death of her own son. The day had passed unnoticed in her distractions with the problems of Orzammar, and only by chance had she seen the date at all. Only a handful of people knew he'd ever been. His death at birth had freed her, and that was a guilt she would bear for the rest of her life. Some part of her dreaded the moment he was completely forgotten. Lissa hated herself for missing it. She could not find the breath to speak of it. Alistair would only hurt for her, and she was so sick of hurting him.

So Lissa would hurt someone else.

The Carta was evidently a necessary beast. The implication behind her orders was clear enough— cut down the head and a more amenable leader would rise in Jarvia's place. But Jarvia was not an idiot. At the first whiff of danger, she had gone to ground (such as it were), digging her fingers into the gangs like a spreading of tree roots which cracks cobblestone.

As she unlatched one of her hip pouches, Elissa briefly wondered what knowledge a mage would gather from the enchantment on the door. Dwarves did not have magic, but at the same time they  _possessed_  it. She had seen more marks inscribed with lyrium in a few short days in the city than she had in her entire life. Runes for clean running water, for smokeless cooking ovens, for light, for decoration, for holding back the darkspawn at the gates… How had the dwarves lived before lyrium? Orzammar was built on magical bones, carved into the heart of a quiet volcano.

" _How good is your information?_ " Zevran asked her in his native tongue, facing outward on the alley as he kept a lookout.

Elissa felt a little pang at the sudden realization that her Antivan was growing rusty. She brushed away the grief of Oriana's absence and croaked back: " _Come again?_ "

" _How good is your information?_ " Zevran repeated, verbatim, tapping his fingernails against the sandy mortar in the masonry. He looked like he was waiting for her to catch on, grinning as he was.

" _I suppose you think you are clever._ "

" _Your words, not mine. I count no less than five pairs of ears listening._ "

" _Seven,_ " she retorted.

Zevran smothered a chuckle into the back of his wrist. " _On the roof?_ "

" _One of mine, for the day. He generously lightened my purse. He is waiting to see if we survive._ "

" _And…_ " he scanned quickly. " _On the roof opposite?_ "

" _That is a servant of the crier. Also waiting to see if we survive._ "

" _How cheerful._ "

" _The mage's contact told me what he could._ " She avoided naming the man, as the prying ears would parse that much. Godwin of the Circle Tower, last seen quivering in a cupboard, had been eager to direct her to Rogek, a lyrium smuggler of the undercity known to deal with outsiders. Elissa needed templars. More particularly she needed to woo the templars out of Jainen City. Bann Alfstanna— anxious about mages— was hoarding them like a high dragon hoards gold.

" _Is he not one of her lieutenants?_ "

" _He is more… how you might say, an independent party. The Carta is a sea serpent with many heads. This one is bad for business._ "

Zevran nodded appreciatively. It was a motivation he could understand. Assassination was not strictly in the purview of the Grey Wardens, but today they were not strictly Wardens. " _Princessa Salazar taught you well._ "

" _How could you tell?_ "

He winked. " _Your accent would never pass in the slums of Antiva City._ "

" _Damn. Am I highborn in every tongue?_ "

" _Impeccably. You remind me of my friend, Rinnala. She enjoyed being the sharpest person in the room, and kept her nose in the air, but she never minded getting her hands dirty._ "

" _Is it meant to be a compliment, Zevran, when you compare me to an old lover?_ "

His eyes flicked downward and he answered in Common. "You tell me."

The finger bone totem barely had to touch the slot in the door before it opened for them. Lissa took it back and appraised the darkness beyond. "What can you see?" she asked, knowing his vision in low light was much better than hers.

"I see a long tunnel which curves off to the left. Does that match what the man told you?"

She nodded, and stepped across the threshold into the dark. The strange door closed behind them, as though it had a mind of its own. She got the sense that it was impatient. Or maybe that was the nervous thrill in her stomach. The anticipation of a good fight made her blood sing. She blinked hard, willing her eyes to acclimate to the dark.

"So, my dear Warden, we have a plan?"

"Light as a shadow, quick as breath, more than a rogue I became."

"Mm. Rinna loved that book."

"Thomas Howe gave me a copy. You might borrow it." Not just any copy.  _Her_  copy. Not that that was anyone's business. She had torn out the dedication the moment it fell back in her hands. Crumpled it, smoothed it, re-read it, and finally commanded herself to burn it.

_To my Lady, on the eve of her seventeenth nameday:_

_A most instructional gift, I believe._

_Yours always,_

_Nate_

Yours always. A relic of a past to which she could no longer lay claim.

"Thank you." Zevran sounded slightly strange, small and turned inward, although it might have been the echo of the tunnel. "Was it a gift? Or a warning?"

"Both, I should think, if he is his father's son."

"If there is time," he decided, "I should like to see it."

"Do you read?"

"One of the whores in Rialto taught me out of a novel. I learned sums in the brothel ledger." He laughed. "Does that satisfy your morbid curiosity? Warden, I was only seven years of age when the Crows bought my life to balance my parents' debts. I was an investment. They paid for a classical education to equal any bard."

"Sorry."

"It is to be expected. Your family trained you to be an arlessa. A certain amount of snobbish naivete comes with the territory."

"Sten says I'm callous. Is he right?"

"He is not wrong. Not that I would ever say so to your face. I want to keep my tongue!"

Elissa unhooked two grenades from her belt and pressed them into his outstretched hands, leaving four for herself. They were glass bulbs, filled with swirling purple liquid which turned to gas when exposed to the air. They could be thrown and smashed, or unstoppered and rolled, depending on how quiet you needed to be. Quiet was always better.

"Confusion grenades," Zevran recognized, and fastened the pair to his belt. "In the open air these dissipate in moments. But this is a confined place. We will be exposed."

"Then I suppose it will be the perfect time for you to carry out your master plan. Morrigan would delight in finally being right about you."

"She will never stop checking my cooking for poison." He squeezed her shoulder. "It is beginning to sting."

As her eyes adapted to the darkness, Elissa saw a flicker of light at the bend in the wall. This proved to be cast by pair of braziers. Their basins were filled with dying coals, glowing a feeble red and filling the narrow space with black smoke. She pulled her scarf up over her mouth and nose; likewise, the elf clasped a handkerchief in his off hand. ' _Don't cough,'_  she told herself. Deeper into the tunnel, her eyes and throat began to burn, even after she dampened the cloth with her water flask.

The rock face in the shaft was warm to the touch. This part was natural, a gap between smooth igneous rock, emphasizing that the previous part had been carved out by tools. Was that warmth residual heat from the braziers, or did it mean there was magma on the other side of the shaft? It would be useful to have some of that… what did the dwarves call it? Stone sense.

At the end of the passage was a low door, marked with the sign of the black sun. The paint was fresh, no more than a few months old. There was a sigil on the handle. She was sure that she had seen the marking before, on the shops in the Commons. Strange clues when taken separately, but together they confirmed a story Lissa already knew.

What was that sound? That thrumming noise in her ears, like a melody she just could not remember? She scratched her earlobe. Was it her own heartbeat?

Zevran stood close beside her. She could not see him but she could feel his hand on her wrist. His breath came quick on her cheek when he tapped four times on her pulsepoint. Four people in the room. Maybe she was not going mad after all. The crack at the edge of the door was blindingly bright. She unscrewed the metal cap on a grenade and palmed it, slipping her thumb over the threaded mouth to prevent it from leaking. Bottled insanity.

Lissa crouched down low and pressed the corner of the door experimentally, searching for trap threads as she glided her fingernails along. The well-balanced door pushed in easily. She created a gap of about four inches. As the voices became more distinct, she rolled the confusion grenade as hard as she could across the tiled stone floor. It was not a large room, but the glass bulb was not a perfect sphere, and it rolled in a skittering parabola toward the left corner.

She let the door fall closed, and braced herself against the floor as she drew a dagger from the sheaths fixed to her back. For a long, breathless moment, there was quiet. And then:

"What's that?"

"Who goes there?"

The sounds of clanking as armored bodies rose from chairs and lifted their weapons off the table, breathing in the purple smoke. And then came a frenzied sort of roar as the Carta within turned on each other in blind rage, no longer able to discern friend from foe. The fight behind the door raged fierce and brief. Zevran counted, tapping her wrist, as three bodies dropped. They waited, listening, to the gargled panting of the survivor. The Crow drew the shape of a question between the leather straps of her bracer, lingering on the tendons and blue veins under her translucent skin.

"Kill him," she answered with barest breath. The hairs on her arms stood on end.

* * *

The five remaining confusion grenades were spent when the alarm went up. Five dwarves in plate and leather, ten dwarves, what was that to a Grey Warden? But Elissa Cousland thought of none of these things as she and Zevran slew the inhabitants of Beraht's estate. She only heard the sweet pulse in her mind, almost a song.  _Kill. Rend._ And Jarvia herself, hardly anything, just a woman of flesh, not nearly what the stories made her out to be.

But Zevran—

* * *

" _So why would the Crows send you, Zevran?"_

" _You are speaking to me now?"_

" _Shut up."_

" _You can be very contrarian, Alistair. Is there some reason why they should not?"_

" _Plenty of reasons. Starting with the fact that you weren't exactly the best they had, were you? Lissie beat you with only one good arm."_

" _Slander and lies. For shame, Alistair."_

" _I'm not an idiot. Well, not most of the time. You're no raw recruit, but I've seen you fight. You're no master of combat, by any means."_

" _Assuming that I intended a fair fight, that would indeed be a problem."_

" _But the Crows must have master assassins, the way you describe them. Men with years and years of experience. Why not send them?"_

" _Why not, indeed? It is a mystery for the ages."_

" _If you aren't telling me, there must be a reason."_

" _If you must know, the masters do not often take contracts outside Antiva. And I made the best bid."_

" _Best bid?"_

" _We agree to pay the guild a portion of whatever the contract offers. The one who agrees to pay the most gets the contract, so long as the guild deems them worthy."_

" _And they thought you were worthy?"_

" _Against a pair of Grey Warden recruits? Apparently so."_

" _Were there many who wanted the contract?"_

" _None. You are still Grey Wardens, after all, and even in Antiva, killing members of your order is considered... impolitic. It made the guild's decision considerably easier, I imagine."_

" _Well that's comforting, somehow. But they didn't tell you?"_

" _Who you were? No. An unfortunate surprise, I assure you. I do not believe Arl Howe told them, or else the price would have been much higher."_

" _So you're a discount assassin. Howe bought you on the cheap."_

" _A bargain!"_

* * *

" _You are bleeding,_ " Zevran whispered, reverting to Antivan.

Lissa looked down. Her gambeson was saturated with red liquid. "I don't think so." She felt sluggish. The crime lord was in pieces under the toes of her drakeskin boots. There was a pinky finger floating in a pool of blood, colorless, shockingly naked. Like an earthworm drowning in a soggy garden.

* * *

_It was no longer raining, but wetness persisted on Elissa's cheeks. The tears came almost independent of her emotion, like she was wearing someone else's face. Silent, gulping, wracking sobs bubbled up between her firmly clenched teeth. She had to stop crying. She was so sick of crying._

_She blotted at her nose with the end of her shawl, again, and grimaced at the feeling of the wet wool against raw skin. Her head was pounding. The parchment on the table was irreparably ruined, already curling where the blooms of ink feathered into black roses. Was it raindrops or teardrops which stained the page? The table in the garden was wet. The whole stack of paper was ruined. Why had she insisted in writing outside?_

_Oh yes, the wailing._

My Nathaniel,  _she had written, before violently blotting out the "my"._

I pray the winter you find in Starkhaven is a mild one and that Ser Varley is a kind master, although I may never understand why you have been sent to squire at your age. I heard it said that Thomas is the new heir in Amaranthine.  _She scratched away "_ Is that my fault?"  _and left:_  I suppose that means you will stay in the Vael Court indefinitely.

Forgive me but I cannot find the strength to prattle through the pretenses of a proper letter. I know I have been remiss. I received your letters. All of them, I think, but they have been screening my post, so I cannot be sure. Doubtless you find my silence in these months a mark of disinterest. Regardless, you are bound to your new master.

Yesterday, I bore a son. He did not live to naming, but I planned to call a boychild Byron, after your namesake uncle. My father disagrees. The priestess came and took him away this morning. I think it will be recorded as another William Cousland, if it has a name at all.

Forgive me.

_The smell of earth lingered in her blocked-up nose. The earthworms fled the sodden ground only to trap themselves on the paving stones, writhing in a slow agony._

* * *

Elissa counted her fingers. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Good. She needed them for… "That's your blood, Zev. On me."

"Potion," he prompted.

"Yes." She grabbed at her belt but found only splinters of glass. "Damn. When I fell they all broke."

"Lis, they hit you with a warhammer!"

"Did they?" Strange that nothing hurt. Zevran called her  _Lis_ , that was wrong. That was emotion boiling in her throat. "No, you moved. You moved between us."

Zevran laughed. This time it came out like a sob. "I think Alistair is going to kill me. Come, I have enough for us both, yes? Only I cannot reach."

Falling to her knees, she worked the clasp of his belt loose until the leather strap fell free. "Sorry," she exhaled. He groaned as she shifted him to reach his potions. "Is it your finger?"

She lifted the potion to his mouth. He swallowed, and after a minute the flush of life rushed back into his brown cheeks. "It was Jarvia's," Zevran explained. His voice was hoarse. "You disarmed her— quite literally, might I say. Good work."

Elissa thought she must have sucked in a lung of confusion. She remembered almost nothing; the room was a stranger to her. Another comfortable merchant caste front room, with cushioned chairs and a table dressed with silver. And blood splattered on the ceiling lamps.

"More might be coming," Zevran suggested. But even as he spoke this, he was stripping out of his armor.

"No. My watchman on the door would let us know."

Bare, the elf's torso was a mass of bruises, turning rapidly from blue to green as the healing potion knit his ribs back together. They would never be quite the same. Potions only accelerated the natural process, which meant scars, lumps, and pain when the weather changed. It was hardly spirit healing, but it would keep you alive.

There were other scars littered upon his lithe, muscled frame. One particularly large and toothy one she matched to his tale of jumping through a glass window. On his chest were precise marks from a knife. On his flank were old burns. And on his back...

"Like what you see?"

"Those are lash marks," she observed, almost quizzically.

Zevran smiled. It was not a kind expression, but it was amused. " _Yes._ "

"Someone tortured you?"

"A welcoming gift from the Grandmaster of House Arainai. The Crows test their candidates to see if they can hold a secret, should they be captured by a rival House. Most break upon the rack, literally or figuratively."

"And?"

"And I was stubborn." He stood up.

"You were seven."

"I was even more stubborn then. You know this about me. I do not flatter myself when I say I know what it is to wish to live above all else. Or to feel the keen desire to die."

Jarvia's corpse stared up from the floor with a look of open-mouthed surprise. Her body looked like it had been ravaged by a beast— limbs sliced away from their torso and organs eviscerated, spilling onto the tiled floor. Lissa bent down and quieted that expression, closing the eyes with her fingers and pushing the mouth shut. ' _I did this,'_  she thought, repulsed. ' _How did I do this?'_

"Are you accusing me of something?"

"Quite the contrary."

She sensed Zevran wanted to say something. "Was it that friend you mentioned? When did she die?"

The assassin sighed. "Two years ago, or close to it. I took the first contract out of Antiva City."

Elissa frowned. "When Howe sent you after us."

"My original contract was for two Grey Wardens." Zevran began to buckle his armor back in place. "A commander and his junior. But my ship ran afoul of poor weather on the open sea, and by the time I was in sight of Highever, the city was already in flames."

"You're lying! You can't have been sent to kill Duncan and me in Highever, because I was never meant to be a Grey Warden. Duncan came to recruit Gilly— Oh. Of course. You were meant to kill Alistair. Duncan and Alistair, I mean.  _Before_  Rendon sacked Castle Cousland."

"Presumably to prevent the famous Warden Duncan from saving your parents."

"—he still failed—" she interjected absently.

"Lord Howe revised my contract when we met in person in Denerim, but in such a way that it could continue under the original terms, without approval from a Master. It was rather clever. I was still to find one Warden-Commander and one junior officer. The last in Ferelden."

"But Alistair never came to Highever. He was on some sort of errand for the Chantry."

"Leliana asked him about that. The task was for Grand Cleric Elemena, who personally asked for him  _by name_. He could hardly refuse."

"Shit. Why tell me this now?" She ran a gloved hand through her sticky curls.

"I wanted to give you the chance to be properly and truly alone if you needed to order the death of a Grand Cleric." Zevran clasped her hand forcefully between his own. "If you say the word, I would do this for you. Your irreproachable prince need never know, Lissa. I am as religious as any Antivan, but we both know he has ties to the Chantry which run deep."

When he used her name it made her chest feel strange. "Why would you even want that, Zev?"

"A queen who plans on keeping her throne needs an assassin or two on the payroll. I might stay close by."

"And what would that mean?"

"You did not trust him enough to bring him today."

"He's too good for this kind of thing."

"Alistair's vaunted morals preclude him from killing gangsters." Zevran lifted her hand and stripped her glove away, finger by finger. When her hand was bare and trembling, he raised it to his mouth. It was a unearthly sight, like something plucked from a dream. It was the wrong mouth, but her skin did not seem to mind. Her cheeks burned; her stomach was cold. "You ask me to watch him because you do not trust him, and then you try to pretend that I cannot see what is happening."

"Zev, don't do this." Her feet were frozen to the ground.

"Just ask Alistair why he visited the Shaperate. Or ask him what he and Morrigan are planning."

"Zev, please." Her voice broke. "I can't do this with you."

"I see. I would never stand between you."

Zevran had this look in his eyes, like he wanted to kiss her, just to see if she would let him. Elissa did not know whether she wanted him to try or not. But that was grief talking. Gently, she pulled away from him. "No one is stupid enough to kill a Grand Cleric."


	15. Bells (Solona)

When the great bells in the high square rang out eleven, the mage dismissed her pupils with a wave of her hands and sent them scurrying out into the halls of the tenement building. Back to their mothers and their luncheons— whatever they might be. It was not Solona’s responsibility to feed them, and anyway, if she started to think too hard about empty bellies her eyes pricked up with tears. She blamed her pregnancy for that, and tried not to remember the plentiful tables at every Circle meal. How the little’uns had second bowls of mash and picked the green off their plate. The luxury of turning away food was lost.

Perhaps forever.

None of her new students would ever be so careless, even though none of the six of them was over eight summers. Their older siblings worked as bootblacks and sweeps, or they might mend traps at the fishery. The very lucky had apprenticeships out of the cold. Very soon the youth would have to replace their fathers, and even the littles would have no more time for their games. Come the spring, people said, the bann would send her army out from the safety of the walled city. No one believed the fathers would come back.

Not that Solona intended to stay in Jainen and watch this unfold. She refused to give birth here, where the Waking Sea thrashed like a nightmare on obsidian shores. It was not the sea of her remembered childhoods in Kirkwall and Ostwick. She was not a witch, but she could feel the omens in the waves even though she could not read them.

The whole building smelled suspiciously like old eggs, the termites had chewed holes in the floors, and the walls were so thin she could hear the neighbors breathe and rut in the night. It belonged to Anders, who grimly assured her the flat was one of the nicer portside accommodations, even if it was only one room with a boarded up hole where the window should be. The landlord did not check papers and he did not ask questions.

Anders had been posing as a university physician ever since his latest escape, complete with the mask and bag he had bought off a less-than-scrupulous dwarf. He kept to the camps these days, up to his neck with cases of scurvy and dysentery, paid in bread and wares where there was no coin. Swords from fatherless children, monogrammed handkerchiefs, wooden spoons, empty leather pouches which smelled faintly of tobacco or spice.

He was the strongest mage Solona knew, although he had been Wynne’s worst apprentice. For while he loved to study, he never handed in any of his coursework. It was one of the ways he protested his position within the Circle, holding that Kinloch’s role of school was a thin veneer over imprisonment. A different sort of man might have climbed his way through the hierarchy to become the personal healer of a lord of the realm, but Anders was not the kind who would accept half measures or gilded cages. Karl Thekla ran a rota of sorts for which of their friends would write his work, trading favors along the way. Solona herself had contributed to the pool a very poorly researched essay on salves, writing with her right hand to imitate Anders’s sloppy script.

Everything…

Everything fell apart when Karl was sent away. There had been no warning. Although Karl was older they had been Harrowed together. Anders departed the Harrowing Chamber triumphant— alone.

* * *

_“Sollie, you have to find out where they’ve sent him. You’re the clerk, you are the only one who can get into Irving’s office.” His voice tinged with mad desperation._

_“I can’t! They’ll know it was me who told you when you run.”_

_“I won’t run. I’ll—” His eyes darted across her face, scouring her for sympathy._

_She cracked. “Tell me you’ll put in for a transfer. Properly.”_

_“I will. Of course I will.”_

_“It’s no good, Anders, you’re an awful liar.”_

_He offered her a watery smile. “You could come with me.”_

_“Next time,” she promised, meaning never. Maker, she pitied that look in his eyes. Didn’t he know mages must never fall in love?_

* * *

An insect scuttled up the wall beside the door, catching the corner of her eye. She gave an alarmed flick of her fingers. It burst into a tiny flame and dropped, smouldering, with its legs in the air. Immediately, her head began to throb, and she pressed her palm into her blurring eyes. The headaches were getting more frequent. Anders’s home was smaller than a closet in the grand homes she had once known. When she was alone, it felt like the walls would close in on her, like the light would go out, and she would hear Lily’s panicked death throes beneath a noose made of her own orange robes...

No.

No, she could not stay in Jainen. They said Kirkwall was worse, but how could it be?

She rose from the single chair at table, which were the only proper piece of furniture in the place. In the corner, the straw pallets they used for bedding were rolled into lumps, reminiscent of the hay bales she had seen in the autumn fields. She wobbled slightly as she sought out her balance, and went to the window to lay her face against the boards.

The cold air was soothing. She could look down into the alleyway to see that it had stopped snowing. A veneer of powder shimmered brightly over the street, crisp and undisturbed. She sucked in breath. When she turned away, she felt a little better, and thought that if she went outside she would be able to think more clearly.

Solona could hear the children clamouring on the staircases, sitting down together to arrange marbles in the dust as they ate the crusts of their lunch. It was a shame she had not thought to grab a story book or a beginner’s primer in her flight from Kinloch. But she had never imagined herself here, teaching mundane children to read from _Ines Arancia's Botanical Compendium_.

R O Y A L

E L F

R O O T

P U R P L E

L E A V E S

And so on. It sat at table, splendid with its full color illustrations on every page. The essay on royal elfroot had an engraving of a petrified dragon’s egg, with the violet shoots coyly encircling it. The children spent more time admiring the pictures than they did learning the words, which was considered a good time by all.

Solona closed the massive volume rather gingerly, half because it was her only book, and half because Senior Enchanter Arancia would personally kill her should it come to any harm. Ines was the foremost herbalist in Southern Thedas; for her services to Queen Rowan, the herbalist had the King’s special dispensation to travel where she pleased. And she did, often, for she could not stand the company of her fellow enchanters.

In the center of the table was a glazed pot filled with dried lavender. _‘Grandmother Evelyn would be proud of me,’_ she thought. _‘The hours of lessons were worth it after all.’_ She picked it up, and carefully moved it to rest on the chair. With the table space cleared, she pulled a bit of twig from her skirt pocket and rested it in the center. The wood grew, stretching lazily into being as it took on the form of a mage’s staff. At the head was a crystal, the focus, sitting crooked in its metal setting.

Solona sighed. She felt as though she was staring at her own limb, torn from her shoulder. Like she was bereft of a piece of herself. The staff was broken, warped, wrong. The crystal, so carefully tuned for pyromancy, had been unable to withstand an unexpected burst of force magic. And she could not fix it. She was no arcanist; that was a speciality which belonged to the Tranquil.

She could still cast. Her mana pool appeared greater than it had ever been, as if her pregnancy was somehow feeding it. But without a staff, it was like trying to drink a lake with a straw. It was exhausting, not to mention painful. _’I should sell it,’_ she told herself, trying to be convincing. _‘Someone in the Circle here can probably fix it and we could really use the coin…’_

She waved her arm violently, forcing the staff to shrink back. She’d learned the trick from Morrigan; it was not something they would ever teach in the Circle.

In the cold ashes of the burned-out hearth, a half-gone letter mocked her. She had been staring at it all through the morning’s lesson. Solona wanted so badly to reach in and pull it free, but then he would know she had touched it, would he not? It wasn’t her business— but she knew that handwriting anywhere. There could only be one reason Greagoir would write to Cullen. There was only one way he could have found them.

Struck by the need to _do_ something, she pulled her cloak from the peg and fumbled it fastened around her neck. The miniaturised staff was pushed deep into her pocket, and then she lifted the latch.

* * *

A fine carriage, pulled by two matched pairs of steel-gray horses, rumbled at breakneck speed up the winding hill. Sparks erupted from the strike of horseshoes on stone. Street vendors threw their wares out of the path of the pounding hooves, shouting curses and shaking their fists in disbelief. On the white door of the box flashed a gilded sun.

“How about it?” Anders posed cheerfully, admiring the horses as he helped a nearby fishmonger right his cart. The day’s catch was splattered across the road. Fish with split bellies and filmy eyes gazed reproachfully up at them from the winter muck.

“No.” Solona grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away, linking them together before he could get himself into trouble.

“Why not? They have got four; would they really miss one?” He pocketed one sorry-looking fish.

“I believe we have had this conversation before, and I gave you my answer then.” She scowled. “Besides, don’t you know who that was?”

“Some high muckety-muck from the Chantry,” the other mage replied, in his own particular brand of flippant, daring her to rise to the challenge. “I saw the sigil when they flew by, the same as you.”

They passed from the outskirts of the square and into the market proper, trying to give off the air of people with coin to spend, but the tight pinch of hunger soured her step. “You saw but you did not _see_. That was the Grand Cleric’s personal carriage.”

“What is Elemena doing in the Waking Sea?”

“It can’t be her, not really. Elemena’d never let herself be seen meeting with Bann Alfstanna, not since she pitched in with the rebellion.”

They passed by the appointed place. Cullen stepped from a side alley and fell in before them, wearing his full regalia under a heavy cloak. He clinked with every step, looking like every other templar in Jainen City. “It’s not the Grand Cleric,” he confirmed from the side of his mouth, not making eye contact. Their old game from the tower. He added softly, “Sola, you’ve spoiled your dress.”

Solona wrinkled her nose. Even though they had stood well clear of the carriage, the front of her skirt was splashed up with mud and snow. It was the only thing she owned that still fit. One morning, she had woken and found that her trousers had betrayed her. Forget closing around her stomach! She could no longer wiggle them up past her thighs. Most women at this time of life fashioned their own garments to accommodate their changing shape, but she had never learned anything as useful as pattern making. If you needed to lift a boulder, or destroy a cursed object, or recite ten causes of the fall of the Imperium in the South, well— she was your woman. Not much use for her among the goodfolk.

She slid her fingers under her cloak, stroking the stiff brown broadcloth of her dress where it hugged her waist. The calluses on her palms caught on the textured wefts. In the Circle, she had worn silk robes and velvet slippers; her fingers had been soft. Absentmindedly, she stretched out her fingers as wide as her cold-stiffened joints would allow. The cleaning spell raced down the threads, banishing the wet with a shimmer of purple sparks.

Cullen’s head snapped momentarily in her direction. “Don’t,” he said. He did not sound angry, but his eyebrows furrowed.

She blushed, and clutched her fist against her stomach. “No one saw.”

“You cannot afford to be careless.”

“I’m not careless, you’re just too cautious. Live a little, Cullen, you can be so stifling!”

“Andraste forfend that I wish to protect the woman carrying my child,” he glowered.

The odd trio walked two blocks in pained silence. She chewed the inside of her cheek. “Who was it?” she said abruptly, realizing that the templars might know of any visiting dignitaries. “Did the Knight-Captain tell you? Who is important enough to use that carriage?”

Cullen hesitated, looking down at his boots in the gray snow. Then he pulled a handkerchief from somewhere on his person, covering his mouth with the cloth so no one could read his lips. A somewhat clumsy attempt at spycraft. Once, she would have giggled at the gesture. “The Revered Mother from Valence,” he whispered.

“Oh.” Her eyes widened.

“Yes,” Cullen affirmed.

“Sorry,” Anders butted in cheerfully, “bit lost. Is this very important gossip, because I have a fish in my pocket mere breaths away from turning on me.”

Cullen cleared his throat, and tilted his head so that his voice was somewhat awkwardly aimed at his right pauldron. “Mother Dorothea is one of Her Holiness’s sacred council. Cuther told me she was visiting at the capital when war broke out.”

“Ahhh. Bad place for a high profile Orlesian to be, what with the Regent’s allergies, even if you are a big muckety-muck from the Chantry. The passages to Orlais are frozen until spring. But no one comes to Jainen City for their health. Someone as important as that’ll have a ship waiting for her.”

“Blasphemous observations aside, he is right.” Cullen took a sharp right turn down a side street, and Anders and Solona followed, all pretense of anonymity pushed aside for the growing excitement of conspiracy.

“A ship flying Chantry colors won’t need papers. Even if we only got as far as Jader…”

The bells in the upper square blared out to mark the beginning of the next hour. Cullen cupped her hand, pulling it to his cheek as she announced her plan between the chimes.

 


	16. Waves (Solona)

The next morning, ignoring his protests, Solona made Cullen take her to the Circle.

It was called “Waking Sea” for a reason. Jainen was a port town; its proximity to Kirkwall and Jader kept its citizens stumbling back after every hurricane blasted against the sea walls and tore apart the docks. If the people knew anything, it was how to rebuild. Most of the structures in the city were crude wooden buildings, cheap and drafty. The bann herself lived in a crumbling old fort, cut into the side of the mountain. On the western side of the harbor, on a thumb of an island connected to the shore by a narrow stone bridge, stood a strange building. Defiant. Daring the water to wash the mages off the map.

The Circle Tower was older than the city, older than the port, older than the fort. Although the storms had eroded the elegance of its face, Solona knew an elven ruin when she saw one. Some old magic still clung to it; rain fell softer there, the wind lost its strength.

Naturally, the people despised the place.

In the alcove market just past the bridge, it was cold enough that breath hung in the air. The Tranquil swept away the snow with brooms. Despite their best efforts, white lingered in the seams of the brick pavers. It was very early morning; dawn was just now yawning into the pink sky above the black sea. Although she could hear the steady roar of the water, as they passed into the ancient courtyard, the walls rose up around them and blocked her view.

Lanterns and large braziers illuminated the gray courtyard. Solona spared a glance back, instinctively keeping her eyes low, and saw the place where the tracks of templar bootprints were methodically erased. _‘Don’t act strange. Don’t be skiddish.’_ The glittering eyes of a thousand hobnail marks encircled her own distinctive footprints. _‘First shift is starting,’_ she observed, noting groggy templars cluster under an awning to share a smoke. A table was furnished with breakfast, untouched and still steaming on its tray. Thick slices of ham, roasted potatoes, stacks of fried eggs, honey-sweetened porridge, all the wealth and bounty of the Chantry. Her mouth watered at the sight. It was familiar, but strange... like peering into a window from the dark, expecting to see friends, only to find you’d stumbled upon the entirely wrong house.

She could smell the doses of lyrium doled out by the quartermaster at the head of the queue. The scent was bittersweet, masked by the stench of tobacco and the sharpness of the snow. The blue liquid glowed in the pale light from the bottom of glass vials, which were consumed and then disposed of in a basket. She fancied she could see how long someone had been a templar by how they took their first dose. Did they lick the bottom clean? Or did they choke down half a mouthful before passing the rest off to their friends? A few stood beside the line rubbing their elbows, pinched-faced, watching the greenhorns with a nearly feral look in their eyes, begging wordlessly for a extra few drops. As the potion hit their bloodstream, their muscles visibly relaxed and their eyes brightened.

Cullen made to settle his hand on Solona’s elbow, but hesitated, like he was waiting for her permission. Then he lowered it, choosing to pinch his fingers around the cuff of her sleeve. “How are you?” he asked between his teeth. He moved to put himself between her and them, as if his scarlet cloak would render her invisible. For a skittish second she pictured curling her pinky upward to brush his hand, but she pushed against the thought. She was fine. She didn’t need—  She knew how to do this.

“Fine.” Her voice cracked.

“What?” He sounded surprised. Hadn’t he asked?

Half a dose.

Cullen was down to half a dose a day. The corners of his mouth were worn to deep grooves; the lines added years to his face. She could hear his molars grinding together in his jaw. She knew that he was rationing, stockpiling for the lean days. Knight-Captain Cutter paid for irregular shifts in chit; the paper went to the quartermaster and two vials came out. Two was generous. Nineteen years old and he might be pushing thirty.

Solona was twenty-five, not that anyone marked name days in the Circle. She’d had one letter from her father at her maturity reminding her that she was not eligible for her inheritance, but that her dowry would be saved for her hypothetical heirs. Father had tried to arrange a marriage for Elspeth with the scion of House Pavus, but he had been unable to get Elsa transferred out of Hasmal. Even a marriage to a Tevinter was better than no heirs at all.

The arrangement might have fallen to Solona, but Solona had the impression that their cousin had died or... something. There had never been any real hope for Kat; the Vaels were too careful to put a child on a mage. Which meant that her unborn child was an heir to the Proud and Pious House Trevelyan, second in line to the bann of Ostwick, after its grandfather. Wouldn’t twittery cousin Osher be disappointed?

Unless it came out a mage, Solona quickly corrected herself, which was More Than Likely. Amell blood would out.

“I said I’m fine,” she pressed. “It is all very… normal,” she suggested, and smiled earnestly at the absurdity. “The Circle carries on like it always has.”

“Some would find that comforting.” He scratched his ear.

“Yes. Yes, I suppose I can believe that.” They turned down the aisle away from the gate and she scanned each stall, trying to force her eyes to study each display. “Have you been?” She stopped herself from asking _‘is it nice?’_

“Only as far as the garrison,” Cullen said in a pinched voice. “Cutter posts the roster outside his office. I fill in where I can. If there is something, if he needs someone outside.”

“How…” she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. She tried for neutral. “How is that working out?”

“He usually finds something for me.”

“Does he know?”

“I do not know. I suppose he must.” Cullen looked down at his boots. They were damp, but otherwise immaculate. Every piece of him was polished to gleaming. His sash and vestments were pressed. Each night after supper he brought out his kit, disassembled every piece, studied them for wear and rust, even blackened the engraved Sword of Mercy with fine paintbrush. Every detail had to be perfect.

“But the Knight-Commander does not object?”

A flicker in his jawline: “The captain sets the roster. That much is the same everywhere, I should think.”

“He likes you.” Her hand curled into a fist. The tips of her fingernails scraped his hand before they buried themselves in her palm.

Cullen did not reply.

Behind the stall with the staves, a Tranquil waited with his hands folded together across his robes. There was a stool beside him, unused. Solona tried to avoid looking at the brand on his forehead— the same sunburst which marked every piece of Chantry property. Like a Tranquil mage was a piece of furniture or a carriage. But even a second’s glance left it seared into her mind’s eye. The pink scar was shiny, and the skin around it was unnaturally smooth, practically unlined. They were all young when they were branded, weren’t they? Frozen before time could etch their faces.

Cullen made up his mind, and slid his hand down off her cuff until he covered her hand. She allowed their fingers to twine together stiffly, with his palm cupping the back of her hand. She tried to squeeze Cullen’s hand, but only succeeded in crushing her knuckles between his broader fingers. It hurt, but in a good way? She understood this pain, appreciated the warm sparks shooting up her arm.

“Good morning, Knight-Lieutenant Rutherford.”

Cullen nodded in greeting. “Good morning, Jonas. This is my friend. She is a Grey Warden, and she may need your help.” Cullen’s voice was warm, kind, but Solona’s mouth tasted sour. They did that, treated the Tranquil like children, but even children knew to flee from danger. She thought of Jowan. She tried to stand up straighter, carry herself like Cousland did, all military precision and haughty boredom, but the instinct was so strong. The desire to be invisible in the shadow of the Tower.

“Good morning, Warden. I do not know you. You were not from our Circle.” His eyes passed no judgement as they dispassionately probed her face.

It was not posed a question, but Solona felt compelled to respond. “No, I’m afraid I’m from Kinloch. Was from Kinloch, I mean, before. Before I was recruited by Warden Duncan.” Her right hand flew to her throat, and with a jerk she pulled the Warden’s Oath from under her clothes. The fastening came apart in her hand. Cullen’s fingers spasmed once against his thigh, and he shifted his weight to the closer foot. “My staff was damaged fighting darkspawn in Crestwood.”

“The Kinloch Circle is broken.” Jonas tilted his head, perhaps considering the object she laid across his wooden counter. Perhaps it had no meaning to him. The silver griffon on the front plate encircled— but did not entirely obscure— the blood talisman beneath it.

“I heard about that. Terrible.”

“I am permitted to sell to visitors at the discretion of the Order.”

“How fortunate.” Solona exhaled.

“Will you need something in writing from the Knight-Captain?” Already Cullen was turning away, looking toward the garrison, looking for an out from their stilted conversation.

If a Tranquil could express amusement, Jonas would have been amused. “Your word is bond, Knight-Lieutenant Rutherford.” For lack of inflection, the delivery came across as sarcastic. His flat gaze shifted back to Solona. “Do you wish to trade now?”

“Yes.” She released him, and his eyes flickered once across her burning cheeks, before Cullen walked away from them both. He situated himself in the center of the pathway, looking back toward the courtyard. It was hard to tell if he was attempting to offer her privacy or stand lookout, but either way she was grateful for the space. She regretted dragging him into any of this. Her heart was thrumming in her ears.

With her dominant hand free, she tucked away the Warden’s Oath and withdrew her staff. The weapon grew to fill her hand with the gentlest bump of mana. Like a young tree it spread a bloom of carved spirals over her head, burnished oak cradling an opalescent orb. Resting at her toes was a sickle-like staff blade, sharply curved. It was a training weapon for an advanced class, taken from a rack in a classroom, the first Solona had come across in the tower. “I would like to sell this,” Solona said, resting it on Jonas’s counter. “You should be able to fix it.”

She expected him to bring out an arcanist’s toolset, but the man leaned down, resting his ear upon the wood. His hands roved up and down the length, caressing it like a lover. After just a moment of ‘listening’, he snapped upright and stuck his fingers into the mounting. The metal frame was twisted, knocking the orb off center. “No,” he announced.

Her heart sank. Her face felt so hot she could barely see. She had counted on this money, how much she hadn’t realized until just now.. She thought, _‘I didn’t walk bald-faced into a Circle to walk out empty handed. I didn’t fight werewolves and darkspawn to be bested by a merchant!’_ Her shoulders stiffened. “The blade alone sells for sixty silver. Even if the focus is irrevocably broken, you can cannibalize it for the parts.”

Jonas seemed not to be listening. He lunged forward and snatched her hands, flipping them over before she could flinch to scrutinize the flesh of each palm. “This staff was not your own.”

She pulled her hands free. “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you mean.”

“I did not intend to offend, Warden. Just the opposite. You do not seem feebleminded. Why would a Circle-trained mage use force through a pyro-attuned focusing crystal? Do they not teach affinities in your Circle?”

His scolding made her smile. Later she would wonder why. “I used to use something a bit more flexible. This one was improvisation. You see, I was under attack at the time.”

“The Grey Wardens need equipment. The First Enchanter speaks of providing aid.” He turned away from her to dig in the depths of a long weapons chest. “A Warden must not be without a proper weapon. You must trade,” the Tranquil insisted quietly.

The staff he offered was a much finer thing than the training instrument. “I couldn’t.”

“The Staff of the Dragon. It is correct.” It was comprised of an ash pole, crowned with a silverite dragon, and footed with a straight staff blade longer than her shin bone. Only First Enchanters were known to carry weapons so ostentatious. Every element of its design said that it was meant to display wealth and status.

“Surely you have something else. Anything.”

“It is correct,” the man repeated. Clearly he was determined.

The Staff of the Dragon. One of a set commissioned by some pompous noble to celebrate the Hero of Orlais. Not unique, per se, but she had never heard of one ending up in Ferelden. The irony of such a weapon was not lost on her. No sensible member of the Circle would even touch a staff which commemorated the deaths of mages. Even if those mages _had_ been a bloodmage cabal bent on murdering the Divine. Solona wondered if Jonas had simply wished to be rid of the thing.

“I really couldn’t,” she protested, as he pushed the pole into her grip. The wood felt strangely warm, and that warmth spread from her hands up her arms and across her shoulders until she was ringing with a sensation she had forgotten.

Strength.

 

* * *

 

 

As Solona and Cullen crossed over the bridge which separated the Circle from the city, she twisted the miniaturized length of her new staff over her index and ring fingers and under her middle finger, mindful not to cut herself on the sharp edge.

“You were going to sell. What made you change your mind?” Cullen asked.

“A Warden needs a weapon,” she replied, almost dreamy. The baby was awake inside her, rolling about like a big fish in a little net. Its demanding presence made it somewhat hard to think about anything else. “Breakfast?”

He nodded a little helplessly. “Certainly. What did you mean?”

“I’m not a real Grey Warden,” she snorted, “but Jonas made such a compelling pitch for it. I honestly tried to say no. He’s very convincing.”

“I suppose that is why he keeps a shop, no? Only what will you do now? You needed the coin for…” color flushed across the bridge of his nose as Cullen vaguely waved his hands “...clothes. What will we do?”

“Breakfast,” Solona repeated cheerfully, dragging his hand to rest on her belly. “We are hungry.”

Pink spread over Cullen’s cheeks. “Cannot have that.” His voice pitched gravelly with affection.

They walked south up the long hill until they came to the upper market, where they purchased two glossy buns stuffed with cod and mugs of hot milk. They sat at a bench beside a railed staircase, in a space which was for outdoor seating in warmer seasons. The tables were pushed into a corner beside the building and the chairs were stacked on top, smothered with snow.

“Karl was scared to death of it,” Solona found herself musing as she licked her thumb clean. “Tranquility. Not for himself so much, but for Anders. He nearly cut a groove in the dormitory floor with all his pacing. I never considered that I… I mean I always thought I would be safe from the Rite. And I was.”

Cullen turned to face the sea, suddenly looking very peaked, like he was going to be sick. At length, he managed, “I do not think I met Karl.”

“You wouldn’t have. They sent him to Kirkwall the year before you graduated.” Solona stood up to follow him, laid both hands on the snowed-over railing, pushing her fingers down into the snow, until they found a rough layer of ice covering the stone. She let herself feel the cold— the way it bit into her skin, the way it enveloped her joints— past numbness until the sensation became paradoxically warm. “What did Greagoir say?”

He looked everywhere but back at her. A poor omen. “You would know the handwriting. Did you read it?”

“I would not be asking if I had.” Solona swallowed hard. The baby’s feet were kicking upward, not satisfied to let her keep her breakfast. The heartburn this caused was a daily annoyance, but not one she was able to ignore.

“Cutter went behind my back.”

She did not admit that she had wondered. “Of course. He wants to keep you.”

“He has only taken pity.”

“The signs are all there. Choice positions, vacant shifts left for you to fill… It’s not hard to guess why.”

“I am not like you, on loan to the Grey Wardens.”

“Such as that is.”

“Sola, it’s Kirkwall.”

_"I stole your phylactery from the Grand Cleric's knights. I'd never let them catch you if you wanted to run."_  
_  
"They'll hang you, Cullen."_

Solona took a step backwards and her foot found slickness. For a split moment she felt weightless, disconnected from the ground. She cried out but Cullen already had his hands under her arms. Wrenching pain shot through her left side and spread across her back.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded, white as a sheet as he forcibly seated her on the bench. “Sola, answer me!”

Solona tasted blood in her mouth. She realized she had bit down on her tongue. “I’m fine.” Her back was on fire. Discreetly as she could, she slipped a fist behind her to massage the muscles of her lower back. “I just slipped on the ice. Did you say _Kirkwall_? What happened to Greenfell? The nice little village posting you were promised?”

“Officially, I am still on their roster. But everyone knows I am absent without leave. Sooner or later it was going to catch up. Cutter thought he was helping. He thought he could get me transferred here. That would mean regular shifts and real pay. I did not ask, but I cannot say I entirely hate the idea. So sick of failing you.”

“But you’re not.”

“I had this thought that I would join one of the armies, become a soldier to support you and our child, but I cannot do without the lyrium.” His fists balled up in his lap. “If the Wardens only had a source… But there are rumors swirling now.”

“About us?”

“Worse. That I ran away because I murdered three apprentices.”

“Maker’s breath!” she gasped, both a prayer and a profanity. She touched her mouth with three fingers. “When?”

“I have had various versions of the tale relayed to me,” he said grimly. “One said it was during the fall of the Circle. Another said it was after the Grand Cleric’s men arrived, because Elemena would not deploy the Rite of Annulment.” The color had completely drained from his lips. “You do not—”

“—No! I could never believe it.”

 ' _Even if— Even if—’_ her brain stuttered.

His voice came from deep within his chest. He said simply, “I could.”

She could not answer that. “What does this have to do with Kirkwall?”

“Meredith Stannard has recently lost her second-in-command. She asked for me by name.”

“In spite of the lie, or because of it? Cullen, I’ve heard things about Stannard. We all have.”

“A Knight-Captain’s pay could easily support a family. You do not— You do not have to come. But I would—”

Solona leaned forward and silenced him with a kiss. His hands fluttered, uncertain, before coming to rest on her shoulders. _‘Stupid,’_ she thought, _‘he’s going to be the death of me.’_ His mouth came alive against hers, keenly desperate, cold and chapped from the winter air, but so insistent. Quickly, the places where they met began to heat. “No,” she told him against his lips, made him swallow her refusal, needed him to understand. Kirkwall had taken her mother. It had taken one of her brothers. It would not have any more from her.

Cullen broke away, breathless. “I thought you would be angry.”

“Can’t you tell? I’m furious.” She could feel his breath against her mouth. “How dare you think I cannot take care of myself? I will find the coin.” Solona nodded, not sure what she was assenting to, half praying he would kiss her again. She thought of Ostwick. Ricard Trevelyan would want his only grandchild. She began to formulate a long-overdue letter in her head to her father.

Cullen leaned against her where their foreheads met. “I am afraid that the letter you saw was not the first of my correspondence with Knight-Commander Greagoir.”

“Tell me you refused Stannard.”

“I did,” he affirmed. “And then it was made clear to me that I have no choice in the matter. By the end of spring next I _will_ report to Knight-Commander Meredith or they will hang me for desertion."

"So it is… the gallows either way.” She tried to laugh at her morbid little joke. Honestly. But her ears were so loud, roaring with the sound of the sea, and the waves were pounding against her skull. Her back throbbed once, and a cold sweat sprang on the skin under her clothes. Cullen was saying something about her color, but his voice faded to a soft nothingness. She tried to read his lips.

"Wait," he might have said, "what is happening? Is it the—"

_'Is it the what?'_ she wondered as the lights went out.


End file.
